


call me through thunder

by ApprenticeofDoyle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Addiction, Aftermath of Torture, Alistair as King of Ferelden, Angst, Blood, Canon Divergence, Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fade Fuckery, Fluff and Humor because the Inquisition has only one brain cell to go around, Found Family, Friendship, Grey Wardens, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I forcibly make the Warden and Alistair part of the Inquisition, Jealousy, Lore - Freeform, M/M, Mage Rights, Magical Bonds, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Politics, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Resurrection, Reunion, Romance, The Calling, Trauma, Unlearning prejudice, a healthy mix of sexy hijinks and high fantasy war and violence, a possible love triangle or two, dealing with templars step one: kick them in the nards, i am not immune to Sap, oh my god SO much canon divergence for da:i, references plot points from the DA comics, templars in desperate need of reform? more likely than you think, touch starvation, unrequited feelings, who quickly becomes a warrior king clowning around with an upstart religious movement??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21844732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticeofDoyle/pseuds/ApprenticeofDoyle
Summary: "They arrive in Haven to cheers that quiet to prayers, to men and women falling on their hands and knees. They reach the Chantry steps with a story, a myth molded into being with desperate hands and desperate hope.Andraste has given us the Herald, and the Herald has returned the Hero of Ferelden."The Warden gave her life to end the Fifth Blight. Ten years later, she is dragged through the Rift at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, breathing, young, andalive.Her fate now tied to the Inquisition, Elissa Cousland must fight to stop the new threat facing Thedas. To aid her comes the King of Ferelden himself, a man who loved and lost her a decade before. Together, Elissa and Alistair must work with the Inquisition to defeat the darkspawn mage Corypheus, solve the mystery of the missing Wardens, and face the Calling, which now beckons the both of them with whispers of death and the end.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age), Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Solas, Male Hawke/Anders (past), Male Hawke/Varric Tethras, TBD Pairings
Comments: 102
Kudos: 148





	1. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidah Lavellan opens the Fade, and brings a fallen hero home.

_chapter one_

The Breach looms in the sky above her like a glacial waterspout, miles wide, glowing a Fade-green so bright that it stings her eyes. It’s the most frightening thing she’s ever seen, and she’s seen demons rip through soldiers like thin vellum, seen families wiped out by famine in winter. It paralyzes her to her bones, but the daggering pain in her arm makes it impossible to stop and stare. Instead, she moves her numb feet forward, trailing behind the Seeker, Cassandra, and the dwarf Varric as they move deeper into the scorched ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Just days ago, she had trailed around its outskirts, listening attentively for any news of Chantry movements. Now she's inside, walking over the burnt bodies of those she’d eavesdropped on, leading a miniature human army into a crater formed by the biggest Fade rift Thedas had ever seen. She can scarcely comprehend it, but she has no time to adjust. None of them have time.

The rift must be closed, or the demons will keep coming. She has no issue with trying to stop them. It’s the _how_ that trips her mind like a planted wire.

Her hand flickers and pain flares up her arm like she’s just grabbed a soldering iron fresh from the forge. Clenching her jaw, she bends her knees and jumps down to the center of the crater below, rubble crunching under her feet. Solas, the only other elf she’s seen since she woke up in Haven’s dungeons, lands behind her, lighter than a feather on the ashes. He meets her eyes and inclines his head after Cassandra. Aidah swallows hard, trailing after the warrior as she rounds towards the Breach.

Above them, the massive rift hisses and reforms, a living, angry thing. Her hand crackles into brighter relief, almost in response to its power. Around them, an unseen voice ripples suddenly through the air.

“Someone, help me!”

Her companions freeze around her as she flinches, the voice sliding into her mind and kicking around foggy, elusive memories. That voice—

“What’s going on here?”

And that’s her _own_ voice, ringing around this tomb. She doesn’t remember those words coming out of her mouth, or remember what caused the urgency within them.

“That was _your_ voice,” the Seeker says, and she turns to see the woman staring at her, her regal countenance torn between concern and confusion _._ “Most Holy called out to you...but..."

A crack and the sound of rushing wind, and the whispers of the Fade surrounding the rift move and pool in midair, creating ghostly, discolored shapes of smoke and strange light. Above their heads, a woman is held suspended, her arms held locked from her sides in burning coils of magic. Before her, a towering, faceless creature of black smoke stands, eyes burning red as blood.

“Maker’s tears,” she hears Varric breathe.

“Someone, help me,” the woman begs, her voice hoarse with strain and fear. Justinia. The Divine.

A pillar of white smoke emerges from the side, rushing onto the scene. The smoke takes shape in the form of her reflection, almost unrecognizable to her own eyes where it walks in the air.

“What’s going on here?” her drained mirror demands, and she could scream for how she doesn’t _remember_ this.

“Run while you can! Warn them!” the memory of Justinia cries, and her heart squeezes tight. She was a stranger, and this woman— _the Divine—_ had begged her to save herself.

“We have an intruder,” a cruel voice booms, its voice as dark as the spectre it emerges from. “Slay the elf.”

Her heart suspends, and with a flash of Fade-light so bright she covers her face against it, the images disappear.

“You _were_ there!” Cassandra accuses. “What happened? Who attacked? And the Divine, is she...” The Seeker sucks in a breath, her expression going hard. “Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

“I don’t remember,” Aidah insists, for the thousandth time. Irritation, frustration that it’s the truth, makes her voice brittle.

“Echoes of what happened here,” Solas says quietly, interrupting their argument before it can begin. “The Fade bleeds into this place.”

Aidah knows that. She can see it, can feel it under her skin like magic itself. But she’s never seen visions in the waking world before, nothing _corporeal_ like this. Nothing she ever read from her clan’s library has ever spoken of magic that can imprint on the living world.

“This rift is not sealed, but it is closed...albeit temporarily,” Solas continues. The three of them crowd around him as he speaks, listening intently. It is clear he is the expert when it comes to this Breach and matters of the Fade, and even Cassandra, though she exudes ‘Chantry loyal’ from her every pore, gives him her total attention. Solas turns his searching gaze away from the Breach to meet her eyes, expression solemn and confident. “I believe that with the Mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

His final words are grim, and Cassandra stiffens to attention.

“That means demons,” she says, lifting her voice like a commander to the ears of all the soldiers posted about the ruins. “Stand ready!” Around them, the soldiers draw their swords and lift their bows, circling into defensive stances. Varric hustles to direct some ranged units up the ruin's former upper floors into position while Cassandra corrals the ground team, and Solas hovers at her side.

“Are you ready?”

He asks the question quietly, gentler than anyone has been with her since she first awoke in the dungeons, and she almost thinks he’d try to come up with another plan, if she said no. Almost.

“As I’ll ever be,” she says lowly. Her voice is steady because at least it’s the truth. He looks at her like he understands and nods his head. The nod seems to catch like a cough as all around them as soldiers nod in her and Cassandra’s direction. _Ready,_ they say. By Mythal, she is the farthest thing from it. But they’re counting on her, so she meets Cassandra’s gaze and gives a stiff nod of her own, feeling like her head is going to snap off her neck from the effort.

The Seeker draws her sword, and Aidah raises her hand to the Breach.

Power and pain flare through her body like the most potent form of lyrium, and she opens her mouth in a soundless yell from the effort. She plants her feet and _stretches,_ as if she can will the damn thing to _open_ like with her own magic. It feels like she is pulling a weak, injured muscle for a limb she never knew she possessed, but suddenly, she feels something give. The air gives an enormous, familiar crack as it splits open in an explosion of green light, and the hairs on her neck rise up as something else comes through.

Violet streaks of light fly across her vision, forming something massive at their feet, and she barely takes two steps back before a giant creature, over four yards high, thunders to the ground and lets out a chilling, cavernous laugh. Its body is massive, covered in grey horns and bone-like musculature, and its black eyes are numerous, huge, and cruel, like the eyes of giant spiders that lurk in the pits of the Fade.

_Dread Wolf take us. It’s a pride demon._

“ _Destroy it!”_ Cassandra cries, voice like a javelin through the air, and dozens of arrows fly at once. Adrenaline whistles through her and she dives just as a whip of pure lightning crackles across the ground where she once stood, and the giant demon growls like a nightmare thing.

“Move, kid, move!” she hears, and rolls instinctively towards the voice calling her. Varric wrenches back the loading mechanism for his crossbow and slams in another bolt, calling out, “Fire in the hole!”

A few soldiers duck and roll immediately when Cassandra shouts warning, and Varric pulls the trigger. Faster than Aidah can see, the bolt flies straight towards the demon’s face and an explosion tears through her ears. Her eyes flare from the fiery ignition of blasting powder and the demon screams in rage, and Varric whoops at her hip. “Bullseye!”

Shaking the terror from her limbs, she whips up her staff and slams it into the ground. Ice shoots up from the ground to capture the demon’s bulky, armored legs, slowing it as it makes towards Solas and the soldiers he’s ensconced in barrier magic.

“The rift!” Solas cries. “Close the rift, and you cut off its connection to the Fade!”

 _Right._ She can do this.

“Go for it, kid!” Varric says, reloading Bianca for round two.

“Do it! We’ll handle the demon!” The Seeker rushes forward, burying her sword into the demon’s left knee, and its scream sends hairline fractures through Aidah’s bones. Sucking in a breath, she darts forward between soldiers around the howling demon and lifts her hand, tapping into the invisible muscle of power attached to her left arm.

 _Close,_ she thinks. _Close._

A thought strikes her from the ether, the image of Justinia floating in terror. _Run while you can._

Could it possible _—_ she'd seen a woman in the Fade, she’d reached for her. Is it possible the Divine could still be there in the Fade? Trapped, as she was? Could she still— 

_Close,_ she wills. _Close, but bring her back._ Shutting her eyes and crying out as her arm fills with fire, she continues to push. The pride demon stumbles to its knees like a fallen forest giant, and the very ground shakes. She grits her teeth, blindly reaching out with this new magic for the connection she’d felt in the Fade. The woman. The one who saved her. _Come back. Come through the Rift._ In the fleeting edge of her awareness, she feels a flickering of connection, and her eyes flare open as the Rift hisses and cracks apart.

Light blinds them, and she feels her knees give out. She crumples, eyes streaming tears, and through her fingers she sees the rift is gone.

And collapsed on the temple rubble is a figure, a woman, lying unconscious.

“I did it,” she whispers. 

The pain overwhelms. Her eyes roll back into her head. Darkness catches her in its arms and she knows no more, save the last words that reach her ears.

"Maker's tears. Another one?"

* * *

“I did it,” the prisoner breathes, voice a rasp of overexertion. She sways like a willow tree and crumples to the ground, unconscious, and Leliana stares.

She stares, because she cannot believe her eyes.

“Maker’s tears,” Tethras says, the first to speak and break the spell of silence that has fallen over them. “Another one?”

“A demon,” Cassandra whispers, voice low in horror. Resolve turns her expression to steel. “Men! Ready your arrows!” The Seeker raises her sword, stepping forward to the woman fallen in the rubble, and Leliana _moves._

"No!” she cries, and the entire battlement looks to stare at her as one.

“Leliana?” Cassandra asks, stunned. “Wh-”

Leliana stumbles forward against the weakness in her knees. She can’t bear to appear so in front of all these people, but she _cannot—_

“I—I must see,” she says. Even her voice is out of her control, rattled with shock and disbelief. 

She’d know that hair anywhere. The color of woven gold, always glowing even in the darkest of caves, even when soaked in darkspawn blood, falling out a braid because it couldn’t be contained by any manner of tie or pin. She knows the shield upon the woman’s back like her own reflection, because she’s seen herself distorted in its metal from walking miles and miles behind it, marching loyally behind the man who used to wear it so proudly. She knows and she can’t breathe.

It cannot be true. It doesn’t make sense. It has been _years_. So many long years, it's impossible. She saw the body herself, kissed its brow with tears on her cheeks, burned it upon a pyre with Alistair silent and broken at her side. She knows it cannot be true. It must be a deceit. It _must_ be, but she stares anyway, her heart pounding in her chest.

“See?” Cassandra repeats, shocked. She takes a step in front of her, blocking her path. As if she could. “Leliana, you cannot go near it!”

“I must _know,_ ” she insists, beyond reasoning, and pushes the Seeker none too gently aside. She does not meet Cassandra's eyes as she moves forward, legs faintly unsteady. “Be ready, in case it is a trick.”

“ _Leliana.”_

She ignores Cassandra and walks forward, passing the fallen elf with the inexplicable mark on her hand through the ashes of so many lost Chantry folk. Her eyes are locked on the woman lying still, face down, golden hair spilling around her like a dirty halo. Slowly, as if her bones are ice that will shatter with quick movement, she kneels. She reaches out. Her hand touches an armored shoulder, but does not pass through it like she half-expects it to. She sucks in a shaky breath, steeling herself, and uses her strength to turn the woman’s body over.

She manages, exposing a face to the cloudy sunlight. Her hand crushes across her mouth. Numbness spreads through her body like morning frost.

“It can't be,” she whispers, choking on the words. It _can’t,_ but she’s right here. 

Her grip goes tight on the woman’s arm, digging into the armor, and she feels the warmth of a living body. Alive _._

_Alive._

“Leliana!” Cassandra cries, voice sharp with alarm. “What is it?”

Leliana shakes her head, words beyond her. She stares at the familiar face slack with sleep below her, and thinks, _she hasn’t aged a day._ But unlike the last time Leliana saw this face, pale and bloodless with death, the woman’s cheeks are rosy. Her thick blond brows are still impeccably trimmed, the last vestige of noble vanity left in her routine, and her thin lips are still petal pink and chapped raw, as she’d always complained. Her nose is long and thin, broken at the bridge from a hurlock’s blow in Ostagar, ten years ago. 

She still has faint freckles below her eyes and spattered over the crest of her ears.

It cannot be.

“Who is it, Nightingale?” a voice asks seriously, and she looks up through glossy eyes to see Tethras, his brown eyes narrowed. He sees her expression and amazement spills across his face, ginger eyebrows crawling up his brow. 

“... Holy shit,” the dwarf says _._ His gaze drops to the woman, gawking. “Is it _really?”_

“ _Tell me,_ ” Cassandra hisses.

“It’s...” Leliana’s voice breaks, her strength failing.

“It’s the _Hero,_ ” Varric says, when she can’t. Cassandra’s face shatters in shock, and something glimmers in the Seeker’s eyes that dizzies her.

“The Hero of Ferelden?” she says, hushed with reverence. With _hope._ “The _Warden?”_

All around, the Inquisition soldiers begin to chatter, awed. Their words are shapeless in Leliana’s ears, white, rumbling murmurs like the hush of forest trees. Her mind is spinning.

The elf Solas takes a step forward, lifting a hand with his eyes closed. “I feel no magic or Fade energy from her,” he says quietly, eyes opening to scrutinize at the unconscious woman with fascination. “She is human.”

Leliana’s throat closes together at the confirmation. “Elissa,” she mouths, without volume, staring down at the woman at her feet. 

Her body shifts, torso lifting on the earth as she breathes, lips fluttering as oxygen passes through her mouth.

Alive.

Elissa Cousland. Alive after ten years as ash.

 _Maker,_ Leliana prays. _Maker save and guide me, for I am weak._

_I am weak, and I do not understand._

* * *

They make cots and carry both unconscious women back to Haven. The men, with their own injured and dead, trudge behind them. Leliana can feel their stares like brands upon her back, even when she knows it is not her their gazes are fixed upon. Their whispers are hardly subtle either, breathless as they are. Cassandra and Varric hiss amongst one another as well, like they haven't been at each other's throats for weeks, only just minding their volume in deference of the expression she knows she’s wearing. 

Fragile. For the first time in years, she feels weak. She prays as her feet move across the Earth, recites His words in her mind every time her eyes fall on the sleeping woman carried beside her. Her fingers tremble with panic every time she manages to tear her eyes away. She is afraid to look, but she is more afraid that if she does not, the woman will disappear.

Behind her, the story evolves like careful clockwork, gaining strength through word of mouth with a concise, shocking clarity. Like a perfect scandal spilling through the court of Orlais: blistering in its speed, maddening in its magnitude.

_The Hero? The Warden? I thought she was dead. She’s dead. She died ten years ago. She was killed during the Blight. She has to be a demon. Maybe the Maker brought her back to us. Maybe it was the elf._

_They say she’s chosen. They say a woman was behind the elf in the Fade. What if it was Andraste? What if she was sent to us? Could she be a messenger for the Maker? Does she herald his Works? Do you think the Maker gave her the Mark?_

_Did the Herald bring us the Hero to save us? Or did the Maker send the Hero to aid his Chosen’s messenger?_

They arrive in Haven to cheers that quiet to prayers, to men and women falling on their hands and knees. They reach the Chantry steps with a story, a myth molded into being with desperate hands and desperate hope.

_Andraste has given us the Herald, and the Herald has returned the Hero of Ferelden._

Cullen meets them in the Hall, after the elf has been sent for healing. He nearly stumbles over his boots when he sees her.

“What is this?” he breathes, deep and tremulous denial on his face. His expression is a haunted reflection of hers, hours before. _He knew her,_ Leliana remembers suddenly. He’d been there, at the Kinloch Hold, when Elissa, Zevran, and Alistair had gone to invoke the Treaty with the mages and ask for help with Arl Eamon’s possessed son. Herself, Sten, and Morrigan had stayed behind, waiting for word in Redcliffe, but Cullen—he’d been there when everything fell apart. Had been one of the captives under the blood mages’ insurrection until Elissa had saved him and the rest.

“Leliana,” Cullen says, eyes wide and face waxen. “How can...how is this...”

She has no answers for him, staring numbly. Shaking his head, he stares speechless at the Hero’s sleeping form. Luckily, Cassandra can speak for them both.

“The pris...” the Seeker cuts herself off, starts again. “The elf, Lavellan, brought her through the Rift. Using her Mark. The Hero was pulled from the Fade.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Cullen says, with just wits enough to argue. “She wasn’t _lost_ there, she’s—she’s been dead for ten years!” His voice climbs in pitch, disbelief edging into distress. His gaze flickers once to Leliana and he winces, hastily pulling himself together. The templar, the Seeker, even Tethras, they all know of her past with the Hero. With Elissa. “I—falling out of the Fade after a magical explosion is one thing, but...returning from beyond the Veil? _Bringing_ someone back from the dead, _through_ the Fade, a woman who has been gone for a _decade?_ ”

The Commander’s voice cracks thrice, and Leliana must fight not to let her expression break each time.

Even Cassandra’s iron will looks tested. “They...they are beginning to say that Lavellan...that the woman spotted behind her in the Fade was Andraste herself. In the temple, we saw Fade visions of the Divine, we saw Lavellan try to save her from her attackers. And for her to survive alone, with the Mark...to close the Breach, and bring us...” 

Cassandra trails off as she looks at the silent Warden, who has been lain on a standing cot in the center of the Chantry Hall. They stand in a circle around her, like the faithful gathered at a shrine.

“Could it be true?” the Seeker whispers. “...Could the elf truly be blessed by the Maker? I search my heart for answers, but all I know is what I saw. And I saw her pull the Hero from the Rift, the revered Warden, in a time of our most desperate need.” The Seeker lifts her gaze to meet Leliana’s, brown eyes shining with shaken but total belief. Leliana’s heart is sick with envy.

“I...” Cullen looks unconvinced, even dazed. “I don’t know if I can accept that. Is there truly no other explan—” 

“She breathes,” Leliana says. The words are the first she’s said in hours, and they scrape out of her throat, leaving her raw. Cullen, if it is possible, goes even paler. “Solas promised me she was human. She is human, and she breathes.” Her voice wavers. “And she hasn’t...she hasn’t aged. Not a day.”

Cullen swallows hard, gaze drawn like a magnet back to the face of Elissa Cousland. “No,” he echoes, voice distant. “She hasn’t. She...she looks just the same.” His throat constricts visibly above the collar of his armor. “...How can that be?”

“I don’t know,” Leliana whispers. Succumbing to an urge more powerful than her restraint, she finds herself bending down once again to her knees at the side of the Warden-Commander. An unsteady hand reaches for an unruly lock of golden hair, tucking it behind a freckled ear.

“I want so much to believe this is the work of the Maker,” she confesses, voice faint. “But I have lost faith in my own senses. Is this real? Have you returned her to us? Why her? Why now?" _Is it sin to question your works, or folly to believe what I know cannot be true?_

“We must face facts,” Cassandra says, struggling for stability. Leliana is torn between gratefulness and an ugly hatred, that the Seeker can remain balanced enough to reach for logic when her own heart knows only fear and uncertainty. “And those are that the rift is closed. Using the Mark, Lavellan dragged the Hero through the rift. The Warden, ten years after passing through the Veil, has been returned to us. I cannot...I _must_ accept this, and to do so, I can turn only to my faith in the Maker.”

Leliana’s eyes fall shut. Cassandra's words reverberate through her, ringing with truth and the foundation she needs to stand. Her mind turns to the words that brought her peace and strength, always, even at times when her hands were stained in red.

“I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade,” she whispers. Across from her, she hears shifting as the Commander stiffens. She opens her eyes to see his face briefly overcome with flickering emotion, but then he speaks, his own eyes closing, voice only just trembling in the hush of the Chantry Hall.

“For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

“Andraste preserve us,” Cassandra says, head bowed.

Leliana looks upwards instead, towards the high wooden ceiling, soul aching for resolution. What manner of trial awaited them, if fallen heroes were sent through the Veil and Fade to live again? Why return Elissa, as opposed to stopping the Chantry, _Justinia,_ from being lost to them, why allow the Breach to split the sky open at all?

No visions come to her mind. No whispers of comfort or presence to guide her emerge like they had all those years ago. 

_Maybe this is his guidance,_ she thinks, and she finds herself reaching. She bends, hand outstretched, and slides her fingers around the unmoving, warm, calloused hand of her dearest friend. _Maybe I’m to follow her once more, to save Thedas from darkness._

She closes her eyes again, but this time, the tears that blur behind her eyelids are not ones of despair, but of gratitude.

 _Thank you,_ she prays, her heart burning in her chest. 

The hand in hers twitches, and her eyes fly open.

“Elissa?” she breathes.

“Is she waking?” Cassandra cries.

“I will fetch a healer,” Cullen blurts, and rounds the three of them in quick steps. Before he can make but a few strides, Elissa stirs, eyelids flickering. They freeze and stare as one as the woman’s breathing changes, her body moving in small tremors. Leliana fights the urge to clutch the woman’s hand tight in hers. The Warden-Commander shivers, sighs quietly. Her fingers spasm as if reaching for someone through a dream.

“Alistair,” Elissa whispers.

Leliana’s heart plummets into freefall.

Cassandra’s hand flies to her mouth. “The _king.”_

“Maker’s breath." Cullen’s eyes go wide with realization, and his attention snaps from the sleeping Warden to Leliana. “We must inform him. But—will he even believe she’s _alive?"_

“…He will believe _me,_ ” Leliana says, voice strengthening. “If I ask him to come, insist he is needed. But if I tell her she lives, that she’s _here....”_ She shakes her head. “He will not believe it. He will assume it is a trap or a ploy, ike he should. It will be hard enough convincing his advisors to let him attend even a service, with the Breach above our heads." Ideas turn in her head, cogs spinning. "But I will tell him that the people are looking to him for support. That we need his presence if we are to memorialize Justinia and come together united after this tragedy, for Ferelden. He may no longer be a Grey Warden in title, but he will not refuse if I tell him he is needed under a demon threat.” Her heart shifts as she speaks, allowing herself for a moment to imagine what he would say, if he learned word of what happened before reaching them. “We must send word immediately, before rumors circulate. If he does not see her himself, he won’t believe. But if he hears word of this before then, it will only anger him. I must send my ravens as soon as possible.”

“Are we to have a true service for her Worship then?” Cassandra asks softly. “For those lost at the Chantry? We have our hands full, attending the wounded. I do not know if we are ready to...”

“We _will_ hold a service eventually for the Divine, and for Haven,” Leliana interrupts. “But you are right, we are not ready. However, Alistair’s advisors need not know that. Alistair _can’t_ know that, not until he’s here. We must ensure that when he arrives, he is not besieged by townspeople yelling that the Hero of Ferelden is alive.”

“That will be...difficult. The whole of Haven must know by now. He is the King of Ferelden and she is...” The Seeker, just barely, flushes. “All of Thedas knows what they meant to each other.”

“It will take his envoy ten days to reach here from Denerim, assuming His Majesty encounters no delays,” Cullen says, brows furrowed. “We cannot guarantee that news won’t leave here and reach him on the way within that time.”

“The King is not in Denerim.”

Cassandra and Cullen both turn to stare at her with surprise. She had yet to divulge that information with them, but to be truthful, even if she had been inclined before, much had happened in the last forty-eight hours. “He was journeying here when the Breach was opened. He’d made it to Redcliffe, before my ravens reached him with word of what happened.”

“His Majesty was coming to the Conclave?” Cassandra asks, blinking. “But...it is well known, his views on the Chantry—”

“--and the Circle—” Cullen interjects.

“--and the Order,” Cassandra finishes, shaking her head. “And still? He intended to join us? To lend credence to the Inquisition?”

“It required a lot of convincing,” Leliana admits. “A forest of letters, truthfully. But it is precisely because of his views on the mage-templar rebellion that he realized how important it was that he attend the discussions. As King of Ferelden, yes, but also as an experienced leader with great familiarity with all three parties involved—if not from within, then close enough.” Leliana sighs heavily, allowing herself to drop Elissa’s stilled hand. The Warden had quieted some time during their conversation. “His guard would have assumed a defensive position in Redcliffe Castle until they were certain the road to Denerim was safe for travel. He will still be there.”

“And Redcliffe is much closer, if his men can cut through the chaos swiftly enough. He could be here in...Maker, less than four days.”

“We must make preparations, ensure the mountain path is clear,” Cassandra says quickly, spine straightening. “Commander, send your men—”

“We will give our people the night to rest and wrap their wounds,” Leliana says firmly. “We have time before my letter reaches the castle and his Majesty sets out with the royal convoy. For now, we must focus on helping the people within our reach. Commander?” Cullen’s head snaps up. “Your initial idea to send for a healer was a good one. And I believe we will need Solas’s expertise on the Fade.”

“I—yes, of course,” Cullen says, spinning on a heel to make rapid strides out of the Chantry hall.

“Leliana,” Cassandra says, and the concern in the Seeker’s voice makes her head turn. The Seeker looks suddenly apprehensive, her noble features heavy with doubt.

“What is it?”

“...Should we...do we send word to the Queen, as well?”

“No,” Leliana says immediately, and Cassandra presses her lips together tightly. She lifts a calming hand. “The Queen...it is not my place to speak of the marriage between herself and Alistair, but understand it is a political union. Both Alistair and Anora have noble lineage and claims to the throne, and they serve as joint rulers of Ferelden, but if it were discovered that the Warden was alive—a hero, a noble herself—”

“You don’t think—”

“The Queen is an intelligent, capable ruler. Politically savvy and deeply committed to Ferelden and her duties as regent. She fought long and hard in her marriage to King Cailan, and afterwards, for recognition and equal power. The people of Ferelden respect and cherish her as their leader, and have for over fourteen years." She crosses her arms, mind turning through possibilities. "However, Alistair is compassionate and generous. After a decade as king, the people have grown to love him like they love his story. He is a hero. The love of his life sacrificed herself to stop the Blight, and he honored that sacrifice by marrying Anora and strengthening the monarchy after turmoil. Once the news goes public that the Warden has returned…”

Leliana sighs heavily, shaking her head slowly. “Our losses here have thrown the nation into chaos. The templars and mages are no closer to compromise, and we have traitors in our midst that seek to ensure this remains so. The uncertainty and fighting will spread, and the Queen will want to preserve order. The return of the Warden…she would be a fool to not realize what it could mean for her marriage, for her position. And Anora is no fool.”

She has not seen the Queen in ten years, and they all had been so young then. She can make no claims on what she is capable of, and this is a truth that unsettles her. She knows better than to assume that Alistair will be enough to stay her hand, however. There is no underestimating the lengths that regents will go to, to preserve their own power.

Alistair, she has learned, has been the only exception to this rule. But he never wanted the crown from the beginning. He has always been different.

 _Just like her._ She swallows, eyes returning once more to Elissa's sleeping form.

“We cannot stop gossip from spreading," Cassandra says, retrieving her from memories with a grave cut to her brow. "The more we try, the faster it will spill through our fingers. You know this.”

“I do. But we must try. Alistair knows the Queen better than anyone, after all this time. It will be up to him to mitigate the political upheaval Elissa’s return will be. We can only hope he has gotten better at politics since the Blight.” The smallest smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, but it quickly fades. “We have enough problems of our own. The Inquisition must rally around the Breach. We must organize.”

“I will examine the Divine’s writ for our next move,” Cassandra says. “There is protocol in place to grant our cause legitimacy, in case of dire need. I know the Inquisition was to be officially declared after we’d gathered more support, but...we cannot wait any longer.”

“I agree,” Leliana says, bending her head. “Try to remain out of the Head Chancellor’s sight by then. No doubt he will scrambling for power. I’m certain he will come here with demands the moment he hears that Lavellan has been found innocent and the Hero has returned.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, and Leliana finally allows herself to smile. “Very well. I will do my best.” She begins to make way deeper into the Chantry offices, and hesitates only for a moment at the Warden’s bedside. 

“I have...I have always wanted to meet her,” the Seeker admits quietly. “I never believed that I would but I always...in my search for the Champion, I privately thought that she would be the perfect person to lead us.”

Leliana inhales, doing her best to hold back the tide of memories that comes to her at Cassandra’s words. “She is...” She trails off, unable to find the right words. Yesterday, she could have spoken of Elissa’s merits until she was hoarse, woven stories about her successes, her bravery, her intelligence without pausing for breath, but now? It seems like too much, to speak of her in memory, when Elissa lay right here at her feet. _Alive,_ that voice whispers again in her head. _Alive, alive._

Leliana returns Cassandra’s gaze. “You will see for yourself, if she wakes.”

“ _When_ she wakes,” a voice says from behind her, and it is the Commander, followed by Adan and Solas.

“Maker above,” Adan swears, staring where he stands as Cullen's side, and the three move to join her at the Warden’s bedside.

“Is it really...”

“Yes,” Solas says, with the same crisp confidence of his earlier statement. “Earlier, when I measured her presence in the Fade for magic, I noted something...strange. She is, to my knowledge, physically healthy, but...” The elven mage pauses, lifting a hand as he had in the temple to move slowly over the Warden’s sleeping form, hand glowing lightly with light green magic. “Hmm.”

“What is it?” Cullen asks, as Adan bends with only lightly shaky hands to check Elissa’s pulse.

“It is...odd. She has the same...concentration of magic, here—” he points to the Warden’s hand, “—that Lavellan does.”

“She has a _mark?”_ Cullen echoes, alarmed, and Solas shakes his head.

“No. There is no... _Fade_ presence within her, unlike Lavellan. But—there is a form of connection.”

“Connection?” Leliana says. “To...Lavellan?”

“I cannot say for certain,” Solas says, frowning, “but I believe they are...linked. It would explain why, perhaps, the Warden sleeps still. Lavellan was nearly killed in her efforts to open and close the Rift. The magic required to summon the Hero from the Veil is well beyond my knowledge.” His brow furrows. “It is possible that because Lavellan is recuperating, that through their connection they are...sharing energy.” He shakes his head, eyes bright with study. "It's...remarkable."

That's certainly one word for it. “Sharing energy?” Leliana repeats. She's never heard of such a thing. But connection between two people, with such power, with the ability to drain others? Her heart goes cold in her chest. It sounds like blood magic.

“Can’t say I understand a lick of that," Adan interrupts, "but I can find naught wrong with the Hero, physically. Her heartbeat and breathing’s stable, complexion shows good circulation. Don’t see any wounds, but I can check for broken bones. I brought a potion, should I—” The man’s brazen confidence and professionalism falters somewhat as he lifts the glass flask from his belt.

“Let me assist you,” Leliana says. He passes her the flask gratefully as he continues his assessment as best he can without removing the Warden’s armor. Gently, she takes the Warden’s chin with a hand and tugs Elissa’s mouth open. Memories flood of her doing this once before, in the Frostback Mountains, when a rockslide had left both her and Wynne unconscious and Alistair panicking over her shoulder. She tips the elfroot potion and lets it pour into the woman’s mouth at a trickle, and the woman swallows reflexively, barely stirring.

“Solas,” she continues, voice serious. “When you say sharing energy—”

“It is just a theory, for now,” the elf explains, gaze intent as he performs his own invisible examination. “But it’s possible that their connection is similar to a magical bond. I do not claim to understand the magic of the Mark, but perhaps by pulling the Warden from the Veil, Lavellan created a…string, between them, that allows for a flow of energy. Currently, Lavellan is weak. Injured, in recovery. As a result, it is possible that the Warden…”

“Won’t wake until she does,” Leliana says, grasping a thread of understanding.

“Are you saying that the Warden and Lavellan are… _feeding_ off of each other?” Cullen asks, expressing creasing with open distaste. No doubt, he has drawn the same comparison as she has.

“Rather, I believe they are tapping into a…shared reservoir of energy, at the moment." Solas's comments tread cautiously around the tension building above the Warden's cot. "Currently, in her injured state, Lavellan is using most of it. However, as I said, it is only a theory. I have never encountered a phenomenon such as this. A person, their spirit and body both returning from beyond the Veil through the Fade…” The elf trails off, voice almost wondrous. “It is astonishing. Any possible answer I have is made entirely from rudimentary guesswork.”

“Thank you, Solas,” she says, and she means it. Though he cannot confirm his theories, their logic is a reassurance she didn’t expect to have. “In that case, I would request the both of you redirect your efforts on healing Lavellan.”

“The Herald?” Adan sighs, and straightens. “Aye, ma’am. Seems she’s to be a regular at this point.” He straightens and leaves them, Solas trailing behind. The three of them are once again left standing alone, weighty silence pressing up against their bodies like a physical thing.

“The Herald?” Cassandra eventually asks, and Cullen nods.

“It is what they are calling her, in the village,” he says. “It is as you said, Cassandra. The men have spread the story of the first Rift and... there is spreading belief that the elf was chosen by Andraste herself as a messenger, to close the Breach and deliver us the Hero.” He swallows uncomfortably. “I...I did not dissuade anyone from the notion.” His amber eyes meet hers. “Should I have?”

It’s an excellent question. She’s unsure of the answer. “Not yet,” she says. “We ourselves don’t know if it’s true, but there is little to gain by denying it. Let them call her what they wish. For now, we must only contain word of the Hero, and only for a few days.” She sighs. “I must write his Majesty immediately.”

“I will look to the protocols,” Cassandra adds, marching off this time without interruption.

“Cullen,” Leliana says. He straightens at his name, expression as intent as she’s ever seen it. “While Cassandra and I make arrangements, I trust you with watching over the Warden.” Cullen’s eyebrows shoot up and somehow, the man goes even more rigid in his dutiful posture. “She must be moved somewhere safe, within the Chantry and away from the people, and I trust no one else in Haven to watch over her. If word reaches our enemies—those responsible for the Breach—that the Hero is returned and vulnerable, they will not hesitate to cripple us by striking out at her.”

“I will protect her with my life,” Cullen says immediately. His face is solemn, immovable stone, but there is an unmistakable thread of veneration in his voice. He means it, she knows. He will not fail her. She nods and the two of them trade places, crossing paths as he moves to the Warden’s bedside and she makes towards the Chantry exit, where her ravens wait in the privacy of her broad-tent. Before, her things had been kept within the Chantry itself, but she—like Cassandra and Cullen—had insisted their quarters be given to the wounded, so they could have protection from the elements. She's used to living in tents, anyways.

Memories return to her of life on the road, living in patchwork tents, flipping coins to see who’d be stuck pitching theirs next to Oghren's at camp. She swallows hard, looking back. Cullen stands over the Warden like a sentinel, his back to her, head bent and hand resting on the sword at his hip. She cannot see his expression, but she can imagine the turmoil that likely lies beneath it. Her own skin seems unable to contain the emotions she feels, and she feels overstretched, thin, and weary. But she also feels breathless, with other feelings that dizzy her with their intensity. 

Elissa is alive.

She tears her gaze away from golden blonde hair and rushes to her ravens. Carefully, with a braced, steady hand, she does not write what her heart implores her to. She does not beg him to come as quick as he can, does not hint at what is to come, does not scratch out with numb fingers, _Alistair...Lis is alive._

Instead, pulse hammering in her ears, she writes,

_Your Royal Majesty,_

_The people of Haven ask humbly for your Highness’s presence at the service for Her Most Holy, Divine Justinia V.._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: how varric tethras accidentally becomes besties with the most important and all-powerful bitches in Thedas
> 
> so it's winter again, which means i have begun my yearly playthrough of the dragon age games and i'm in love for the hundredth time. i crave alistair/warden material like plants crave sunlight, and i always wanted to write a fic where alistair was thrown in the inquisition as a companion because honestly, he and certain members would get on like a house on fire. this fic will have evolving relationships (although the main pairing, Alistair/Warden will remain fixed), so consider me...malleable on certain outcomes, to an extent, unless i really sink my teeth into an idea later. fair warning, you will witness a lot of love for my favorite characters in this fic, and it won't be hard to figure out who they are; also, i'm a ho for h/c and tons of other tropes, so buckle up.
> 
> like the story? have thoughts?? speak up in the comment box below or hmu on tumblr @apprenticeofdoyle


	2. II

**chapter two**

The elf and the Hero sleep like the dead, and they work from sunrise to dawn for three days.

The wounded are many and the dead devastate in number. There is much that remains to be done, too much at any glance; they must rebuild, sweep the outskirts for lingering demons, host proper services for the lost—but for now they can only organize rations for those that remain, arrange small patrols, and send letters for aid. They struggle to absorb newcomers coming to Haven for shelter or for solace, in the wake of Justinia’s death and so many lost loved ones. She, Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen work tirelessly to provide, and it feels at times that the work is the only thing keeping each of them from falling apart. 

Josephine is perhaps the most collected of them all. Her ability to summon promises of support from nobility across hundreds of miles is uncanny. Her fixation on maintaining the appearance of humility and strength, even after such tragedy, would grate on her nerves if doing so wasn’t precisely necessary for their plans.

The former templar commander is excellent at maintaining a professional facade in the face of all the destruction and death they have experienced. She finds new respect for the man as she sees him amongst the men, spine straight and voice strong, ordering that they set aside their drills to help the people in any way they can: personally pitching in to lift wooden beams and carry crates of supplies wherever they are needed. When Cullen is not directing soldiers, he is haunting the Chantry Hall as personal sentry, posted in front of the Hero’s chambers. 

In the few times Cassandra finds herself passing the guarded room, unconsciously drawn there, she sometimes sees Leliana standing there with him, engaged in quiet, sober conversation. Their spymaster, she knows, has been shaken deeply by the Hero’s return. Leliana is a master of inscrutability, capable of serenity that reveals nothing even in the most emotional of times, but everything that has happened—the Hero, the Breach, the Conclave, and losing the Divine—it has stretched beyond even her abilities. Cassandra does not blame her, nor hold her in any less esteem. If anything, her regard for the woman has grown, watching her tarry for their cause unfaltering, despite their circumstances.

The Hero has not woken, despite her lack of injury. Solas's theory about the Mark and its magic holds untested, for the Warden only sighs in continued deep sleep, three days after her return from death and Lavellan's lapse into unconsciousness. She herself worries for the Hero, as does Cullen, but she knows her concern must pale in comparison to Leliana's.

Cassandra cannot imagine how it feels, to be in her position. The stories alone don’t often mention Leliana's personal involvement to stop the Blight, but it is well-known that she served with the Warden to gather the alliances of Ferelden and fought with her to stop the Archdemon.

She wondered once, briefly, about how it would have felt if Anthony had fallen from the Rift instead of the Hero, and quickly buried the emotions that sprung within her at the idea. It was not a fitting comparison.

As for herself, she is...adrift. She knows it, feels herself untethered in waves of uncertainty she hasn't navigated since her Seeker's trials. In the moments before her head hits her cot, after hours of studying the Divine’s directives for their cause, she meditates, searching for peace. Losing the Divine has crippled her at her foundation. A blow she had never anticipated crumpling so fully beneath. She was forced to reconcile, the first night when she lay down weary to her bones, that her faith in the Maker had been tested. Had _wavered,_ in a fraction of an instant, upon seeing the Temple so desecrated by violence. The loss still shocked her, rippling through her at sudden times like rocks thrown across river-water.

Worse is the rage that broils, like molten metal, beneath the tides of her grief. How could this have happened? _Who_ was responsible? How could they have caused such tragedy?

The return of the Hero has precipitated questions she does not have the ability to ponder, much less answer. Before, death and the Veil had been absolute. She was certain that day was light and night was dark, and that one day, her time would come to return to the Maker’s side in peace. Now, that fundamental truth has been challenged.

She does not have the words to express what that means, for herself and for the world around her. These moments frighten her, filling her stomach with ice. Her mind returns to her teachings, her training, to stave off her weakness, and they direct her to the familiar comfort of facts, of the evidence lain before her. The foremost of which is that the Hero of Ferelden has returned to the living world. Perhaps, if the Maker could not intervene on behalf of the Conclave, this is His boon. Perhaps the Herald and the Warden both are divine provenance, given to defend them against darkest evil. She takes this possibility with both hands, beggared for any sign that what has happened here was part of His plan.

As it is, there are times where she feels out of control, when she longs for a sword in her grip to make her own order, through violence if necessary. These moments are most frequent when speaking to the High Chancellor. 

The man is an infuriating pox on Haven, always lurking about to hiss poisonous reprimands for their “blasphemous” actions. His claims of knowledge of the Maker’s will, aimed to bend her to his understanding, disgust her. The use of Andraste’s tenants and the Chantry hierarchy to seize power for oneself has always been the flaw within the Chantry that has offended her most, and Chancellor Roderick epitomizes this with his careless words, his bureaucratic posturing, his demands that the Herald be arrested and charged for crimes no one, now, believes she committed.

She eventually finds herself, fingers longing for the hilt of her sword, locked in another argument in the Chantry’s main hall a few hours before sunrise, three days after the Rift was closed. He raises his voice to her, and she prays to the Maker for patience.

“You will chain her and send her to Val Royeaux! She is a threat to all of us who remain here!”

“I will do nothing at your command!” Cassandra snaps. “You have no power here, Chancellor, nor do you realize what we saw at the Temple. If you had, you’d realize that the Herald—”

“The Herald,” the Chancellor scoffs, and his derisiveness fills her with outrage, lifting her hackles and making her nostrils flare. “Surely you’re not foolish enough to believe the common talk! I heard about the “ _vision”_ you witnessed at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and it reeks of demon trickery! You have been deceived, and by an elven apostate no less! To think you call yourself a Seeker of Truth!”

“How dare you,” Cassandra hisses. “You were not there! The Divine—”

“Is _dead,_ and her murderer sleeps comfortably in handwoven wool blankets, doted on by Haven’s best healer! It is shameful! An affront to her Holiness’s memory!”

“Do not invoke her memory to make _points,_ ” she says, words flying out of her mouth like a barbed whip. “The Herald brought us the Hero. How do you account for this holy act, Chancellor?”

“I do not dare call demonic intervention holy _,_ ” Roderick sneers, face ruddy with emotion. “Even _if_ the Warden was summoned through the Fade, it is more evidence of conspiracy than it is hallowed intervention!" The volume of his voice drops, and he narrows his beady eyes. "Have you _considered,_ Seeker, that perhaps the Hero never died? That she fell through the Fade because she’s been alive this entire time, that _she_ had a role in the death of the Divine? The Mark, the elf, the rifts _—_ does none of this strike you as more than coincidence?”

“You accuse the Hero of destroying the Conclave?” Cassandra echoes, astonished. “You cannot be serious—"

“A word of advice, Ser Roderick,” a hard voice interrupts. She turns to see Cullen coming their way from the inner sanctum of the Chantry, evidently relieved of his watch over the Hero. 

“You would do well to avoid making such baseless accusations in public. Both Leliana and I knew— _know_ the Hero,” Cullen says. “And to hear such careless remarks of her character...” The Commander’s jaw shifts, his umber eyes flashing a darker brown in their anger. “The Warden gave her life, for every Ferelden, to end the Blight. She deserves the title of hero and has earned your respect. More, she is revered throughout the nation for her deeds and if you value your position, Ser, you will keep a civil tongue.”

“You dare threaten me?” the Chancellor asks slowly.

“No, High Chancellor,” Leliana says suddenly, appearing from behind the man with silent steps. He whirls around to face her, surprised, and Cassandra can't swallow her smirk. “But you know who will, should you continue to speak such lies aloud?”

She inclines her head, past Roderick, to the great doors at the entrance of the Chantry hall. There is the distant, growing sound of armoured footsteps, marching in time, and in moments, the mighty doors swing open under the arms of knights draped in Ferelden royal colors. Cassandra stares at the procession that follows the sentry guards through the doors, regimented, faceless soldiers moving as one, their polished helmets reflecting the flames of the Chantry ceiling braziers. Behind the small parade of soldiers—the bronze insignias of the Royal Guard flashing upon their breastplates—walks a tall man, his broad shoulders draped in a fine, fur-ruffed cape. A circlet winds around the man’s blond head, interwoven lengths of gold and silver that glint in the Chantry firelight.

The King. He was early _._

“Your Majesty,” she says, breathless, and bows. Beside her, Cullen and Roderick do the same. Her mind runs quickly through all that they had managed to prepare for his arrival, anxiety clenching her heart. She’d thought they still had time, Redcliffe was still yet another day’s ride away—

Beside her, Leliana takes a step forward, her head bent. Cassandra can see the small smile on her face, curling at the edge of her mouth. The first in many days.

“My king,” she says, and straightens from a short bow.

King Alistair Theirin moves forward, the blue and silver lining of his pristine doublet glittering. Grey Warden colors, Cassandra realizes. As he approaches them, she can’t help but blink at the expression on his face. He’s grinning. Widely.

“Hello, Songbird,” the king says, voice warm. Suddenly, as he nears Leliana, he lunges forward and winds his arms around her waist. Leliana makes a short noise of surprise that turns into unfamiliar, sparkling laughter as the king swings her around like a young girl, beaming.

“Alistair!” she gasps, and the open fondness in her voice marks the happiest she’s ever heard Leliana sound. All at once, the spell of awe and respect is broken, and Cassandra can only stare in surprise as the King of Ferelden embraces their spymaster like a close sibling.

“It’s been too long!” King Alistair says, and sets her down gently, hands moving to her shoulders. “Leliana. I am so happy you’re alright. How are you?” His handsome features sober somewhat, sliding into regret. “Ah. Sorry. It’s a foolish question, in times like this." He sighs, brow heavy. "I...I am so sorry, for your losses. We were all stunned to hear the news.” He straightens to his full height. “Tell me, how can I offer you aid? Name it, if it’s within my power to give. And even if it’s not, I will do my best.”

His Majesty’s friendly demeanor and immediate generosity send Cassandra back on her heels. It appears rumors about the king's disposition were true: he does not lean much on pomp or political convention. She cannot help but approve enormously.

“Your Majesty,” she says, stepping forward. She bows her head in deference when his light brown eyes fall upon her. “Forgive us for our disorganization, but there is much to tell you. Perhaps we could debrief in you in private.”

“Alistair, this is Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast,” Leliana says, introducing her, and the king nods. Up close, she sees that the royal depictions of his Majesty don’t do him much justice. It is true, she sees, that he resembles his father and half-brother very much in coloring and noble features, with his blond hair, high brow, and strong jaw. However, his hair is a dirtier blond, with a touch of ginger to it, unlike the fanciful gold of storybook drawings. And there is a distinct...boyishness to his face, despite the man’s age and worry lines, that further belies the stoic countenance he’s often given in official portraiture.

“Your reputation precedes you, Seeker,” he says to her, eyes brightening with recognition. Even his voice is not how she imagined it; rather than deep or striking, it has a lightness, an affability she did not expect from a regent. His words sink in and Cassandra wills herself not to blush at the idea that the king of Ferelden knows of her by name and more.

"Leliana speaks highly of you in her missives,” His Majesty continues, crossing his arms. “And I agree that we should perhaps meet somewhere less...public. It’s why I pushed my men to get here so early, before the sunrise. I didn’t want my presence to add more chaos here than necessary." He huffs. "Though that might be inevitable. Seems I always cause a fuss, wherever I go—comes with the crown, I'm afraid. It has the _strangest_ affect on people.” Alistair's mouth twists in a wry grin, and Leliana returns his smile. Cassandra could applaud her. No doubt it was her idea, to have the king come in while Haven slept.

“Our meeting room is this way,” their spymaster says, with an extended hand. “Commander Cullen will be joining us.” Pointedly, she does not introduce the High Chancellor, but clearly having summoned some sense, the man does not cut in. Cassandra tries not to reveal her pleasure at this.

“Your Majesty,” Cullen says, bowing his head formally.

The King nods in greeting. “It’s been a long time, Commander,” he says, and Cassandra feels her eyebrows go up. She did not know that Cullen had any past interactions with the King. It seems that both of her associates are familiar with the man, in one way or another.

“Indeed, your Highness,” Cullen says, expression solemn. King Alistair sighs heavily, looking burdened.

“Perhaps one day we will meet and things won’t seem apocalyptic,” the King says grimly, and Cullen mirrors him as the set of their shoulders slump together in a moment of shared exhaustion. 

“I...hope so, sire." The two of them straighten, shoulders squaring into stern templar lines, and the King inclines his head to Leliana.

“Lead the way? My guard will follow, but remain outside the door.” The King's mouth lifts in a brief, if not totally heartfelt, smile. “They’re very loyal like that.”

“It’s not a problem. What we have to discuss is not sensitive so much as it is...” Leliana trails off, and His Majesty's expression shifts in concern. Cassandra does not envy her position whatsoever. She herself does not have the words to explain what happened, let alone to... 

They enter the meeting room, gathering closely around the broad table. The King’s eyes remain trained on Leliana the entire time, watchful until she speaks.

“Alistair...” she begins delicately. “What have you heard from your people about what happened at the Conclave?”

The cut of Alistair's brow is grave. “What we know is the _what,_ mostly. That the Conclave was...torn apart, by a massive Fade Rift. I saw the Breach above us, you can see it for miles and miles. Terrifying, by the way.” His broad shoulders slump beneath polished pauldrons. “We know that we lost the Divine, and many others. What is unconfirmed, however, is that there was a lone survivor. You mentioned someone in your letter...a mage, who closed the first Rift. I assume that’s him?”

“Her,” Leliana corrects. “And yes. The only survivor of the Conclave. She was found by our men at the base of the crater the Rift left of the temple. They say she fell directly from the Fade. She has no memory of the attack itself, nor can she direct us to who was responsible, but the explosion left her with...a strange ability. A Mark on her hand, capable of closing Fade rifts.”

“Maker,” Alistair murmurs. “Well. That’s certainly...lucky, isn’t it?”

Leliana presses her thin lips together. “Indeed,” she says. “The people...they are calling her the Herald. They say she was chosen by Andraste herself, to save us from the Rifts.” Alistair makes a face at that, and Leliana shakes her head. “Whether that is true remains to seen. But...”

Leliana inhales deeply, and lets out a thin breath. She looks up, meeting the King’s eyes intently, and he frowns where he towers above her.

“Alistair,” she says, voice low and quiet. Inside her chest, Cassandra’s heart hammers in anticipation. “Something happened, when we took the Herald to close the first rift.”

“I gathered as much. Honestly, Leliana, you’re beginning to scare me,” the King says, brow furrowed. “Your letter was vague, even for you. Clearly you trust the other two people in this room, so just...tell me what happened. Whatever it is, we’ve made it through worse.”

Leliana swallows visibly over her violet collar. “You must...you must trust me, Alistair.”

The King’s eyes go wide. “ _Trust_ you?” he says, disturbed. “You _know_ I do. With my life, a hundred times over. Maker’s tears, Leliana. What’s going on? I’m beginning to think—I don’t even know, I can’t imagine what could worry you this much. But whatever it is, I—" A beat, and his voice hardens. Alistair the Warden disappears behind King Therein, the regent. "I need to know.”

Leliana’s grey eyes glimmer. “Come. I will show you myself.”

Her hand moves to the King’s arm, and she guides him gently through a side door. Cassandra exchanges weary glances with Cullen, heart fluttering. Together they follow Leliana and the King deeper into the Chantry halls towards the living chambers, coming to the door that Cullen has guarded vigilantly for the last three days and nights.

“You are dismissed,” Cullen says to the guard—his second in command, and most trusted—standing outside her door, and the soldier nods, bows, and quickly takes her leave.

“This is all very foreboding, you know,” the King quips quietly.

Leliana turns to him, eyes heavy. “This will come as a shock,” she says, voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion. “But _trust me._ Please.”

“...Alright,” the King whispers, clearly shaken by Leliana’s demeanor, and the spymaster reaches for the door. Gently, she pushes it open, and the two step inside. Cassandra and Cullen linger at the doorway, unwilling to intrude in unspoken unity.

Her heart drops and suspends when very suddenly, the King goes still. 

Slowly, she reaches for the wooden bedroom door, and closes it tight before her.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chap and a cliffy, because the next chapter is almost done and much longer ;)
> 
> I really buggered myself by writing Leliana's POV with the first chapter, because her voice is hilariously difficult to get right. and the first chapter of a fix-it is always so slow and exposition heavy, especially to tee up Inquisition's main story :/ However, I think I did a better job with Cassandra; you get to know her on a more personal level, I think, that Leliana, even though the latter is in all three games, so her POV is mildly easier to channel. 
> 
> (also, for clarity's sake--I know the games use the terms 'Fade' and 'Veil' interchangeably, but in this fic, the Fade denotes the glowing dreamscape, whereas the Veil distinguishes where Andrastians believe they go when they die). 
> 
> I'm honestly delighted to write Alistair. Who knows if I'm doing him credit though, under all the jokes and the years of ruling Ferelden, he's got layers. The next chapter, I think, will be a truer test of my ability to write his perspective ;)


	3. III

**chapter three**

He doesn’t understand.

There’s—

In the room, there’s a woman on a bed. A cot, really, not a bed, one that's seen better days, and at first, he can't see her very well. What catches his eye immediately isn’t even her, in fact, her face; what stands out in the low candlelight is the shield, glimmering where it’s propped up by her bedside, and the sight of it is like a bolt of lightning.

He knows that shield. And he knows it can’t be here. It should entombed in the memorial in Denerim. When her family's shield from Highever cracked after a hundred battles, he'd known she needed other. At the time, he’d thought there was no better person to use Duncan’s shield than her—he trusted it in her hands, and trusted the shield itself to protect its wielder.

It had failed him, like it failed Duncan, and afterward, he could not bear the sight of it. She had died using it, left it stained with her blood, and so he’d elected to seal it away with her ashes.

But now Duncan’s shield is here, leaning against the wall and shining dull and clean. His thoughts go fuzzy and his hands go numb, and his eyes slide back to the cot in their unwillingness to look.

He sees the Grey Warden symbol emblazoned on her chest next, eyes tracing the familiar design on the woman’s chest armor. He finds navy blue leather and dark grey mail, the same colors he still wears proudly today. He sees worn leather boots that they bought from a traveling merchant on the road to the Brecillian forest, lingers over dark silverite greaves Zevran had pilfered from the body of a particularly stubborn fellow Crow. His throat constricts at the sight of a silver earring, given to her by a flirtatious pirate in some shady Denerim portside pub.

He sees her hair. Maker. Her hair. It’s brighter and messier and a purer gold than he remembered.

He doesn’t understand. His knees go weak and suddenly, the room is spinning. Leliana catches him before he can crumple to the floor.

“Alistair,” Leliana whispers. He can’t think to speak. He doesn’t—he can’t—

“She...she came from the Fade.” Leliana’s voice is low and vulnerable in his ears, which feel stuffed with cotton. His stomach feels like it’s been dropped from the top of a mountain, plummeting down through midair, and he can’t remember how to breathe. “The Herald...using the Mark...she brought her here.”

He shakes his head, senseless. The words have no meaning to him. He can’t even look at Leliana, can’t tear his eyes away.

“She’s not an illusion. Not a demon. Not magic.” Leliana’s whispers are gentle, like he’s a child. His eyes burn but he does not blink, for fear she’ll disappear as if she were never there. 

“She’s real,” Leliana says, and that comes through. Louder and clearer than if she’d yelled it, a javelin through his heart. “She’s alive.”

“...I don’t understand,” he tries to say. His voice is horrific, nearly unrecognizable. “How—”

“I don’t know. None of us do. Alistair. Alistair, _look_ at me.” He feels a hand on his chin, trying to direct his attention, but he fights it, transfixed. Eventually, Leliana moves into his line of sight, and he almost shoves her away, panic pounding through his veins.

“ _Alistair,”_ she says. Her eyes are glittering with unshed tears. Leliana never cries. “She’s been asleep for days. We believe...we believe it’s because she’s connected to the Herald. The mage who summoned her. Until the Herald heals, we don’t know if she’ll wake. But in her sleep, she...”

Leliana’s throat works in a swallow, and finally he meets her gaze, on a cliff's edge for what she has to say.

“She calls for you,” she says. He feels heat in his eyes, under the skin of his face, and he sucks in a breath, tasting the salt of tears.

“It’s...it’s her?” he manages. His voice is like roadside slush, and his whole body shudders. His heart is beating hard and uneven in his chest, cramping and sudden _gush-_ thumps of pain. He wonders faintly if he’s dying.

“Yes,” Leliana says. “It’s her.”

The world spins on its axis, and he staggers a step away from Leliana. Away, as if through a dream, towards her bedside. He kneels, slowly, because his knees are weak enough to fail him.

Up close, he devours every feature. Her hair. Shining in the candlelight, brushed clean and spilling over the thin pillow beneath her head. Just past her collarbone and as untamed as the day he first met her, weeks after her trek through the wilderlands to Ostagar. Her dark, thick eyebrows, the clean scar splitting her right from a battle not long after first returning to Redcliffe, one that had left him terrified for reasons he didn’t yet understand. Her nose. Long and lightly freckled, like the tips of her ears. Her thin, pink mouth. Blooming in color. Not pale and drained, not grey. Her chin, her hands, her eyelashes. He lingers on each detail, heartbeat a war-drum in his ears.

She looks the very same, from the last day he saw her alive. His memories, long revisited as they were, have done her no justice.

Behind him, he hears the sound of a door opening and closing. He’s alone, now. With her.

He lifts a trembling hand. His palm hesitates, quivering, over her arm. What if he just goes straight through her? What if she’s a spirit, and this is all a lie?

_Trust me. She’s not an illusion. She came from the Fade._

_She calls for you._

His fingers brush across tanned leather, and fresh tears well at the corner of his eyes. It’s soft. Worn. His hand moves from her arm down to her hand, and the feeling of her skin scatters his thoughts. Her skin is smooth, where it isn’t scarred or callused. He can feel her pulse in her wrist, feel the heat of life leaping through the back of her hand, warm and real. 

It’s real. She’s _real._

He chokes on her name, bending over her. The hand that had taken hers moves to bury itself in her hair. The other cups her face, his thumb moving across her cheek. She does not stir at his touch, lost in something deeper than sleep. Her hair, _Maker_ , her hair, the feeling of it through his fingers brings back memories so powerful that his heart feels set ablaze in his chest.

Maker. She’s alive. She’s right here, after all this time.

He leans down, pressing his forehead to hers. Tears slide down his cheeks, falling audibly on the leather of her chest armor. This close, he can feel her breath leave her mouth, puffing against his face, and he still can’t believe it.

“Elissa,” he whispers, broken, reverent. He inhales and she smells like leather oil, like the Road, like the distant sweat of hard-fought battle. She smells like home. _His_ home, after ten years lost.

In his arms, he almost swears she stirs. Shifting gently into his touch. It renders him speechless, mind frozen, as he pulls back to watch her with amazement. He sees her, can touch her, can hear her breathing. If it weren’t the ache in his bones, the weight of the crown on his head, he would think he was dreaming. But maybe it’s the last decade that has been the dream, and she never left him at all. Maker knows how often he sees her behind his eyelids, in the Fade and in his waking hours.

His thumb skims her cheek again, unconsciously, muscle memory that hasn’t faded despite their years apart. His hand only remembers the curve of her face, not the years he went without it, and the motion is so easy it knocks the breath out of him. He almost chokes when this time, his touch is met with movement. Real movement this time, he’s certain of it, and his lungs constrict and contract in his chest as her face twitches, her neck twisting.

Sound leaves her lips. A soft exhale, sighing in her sleep. Her thin mouth moves minutely, her heavy brows furrowing and smoothing out. Her hands spasm briefly at their sides, and without thinking he cards a hand through her hair, comforting like he used to when the archdemon still tread in her dreams.

She sighs again, heavier this time, and leans into his hand. 

“Ali,” she mumbles, faintly.

His heart gives a horrid, wonderful lurch in his chest. _Maker_. His name in her voice, the _sound_ of her speaking. He never thought he'd hear it again.

“I’m here,” he whispers. He sniffs, fighting the urge not to bury himself in her chest and cry in earnest. Instead, the edges of his mouth curl into a watery, trembling smile. “I’m here, Lis. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.” They would have to drag him away. With horses. In chains. He’s going to spend the rest of his days holding her, listening to her. He wants—has always wanted—nothing else, and now he could never bear anything but.

There’s the lightest knock on the door, and he just barely wipes the tears from his eyes when Leliana leans in, her expression urgent.

“Alistair,” she says. “It’s the Herald. She’s awake—”

“Go." He doesn't bother to look up. “I will stay here.” Until she wakes. Even if she doesn’t. He will remain regardless. He moves from his knees to sit on the edge of her cot, hand returning to her cheek like a magnet.

Leliana nods shortly in the corner of his eye, and the door closes behind her. The sound reverberates through the small chamber, and he stills when its aftermath sends Elissa shifting on her cot. He stares, awestruck, as she twists, a sigh leaving her lips. Her eyebrows scrunch together and she makes a face, the same face she always makes when she’s woken before she’s good and ready, and his heart feels like it’s going to explode out of his chest.

“Nnnh.” Eyelids flutter, and hazel eyes—irises spilling from gold to brown into full forest green—slowly open. He's frozen, captivated, when she blinks and those eyes focus on his. _Andraste wept._

The smile that tugs at her mouth as she sees him unspools him completely.

“Hey, you,” Elissa whispers, a hand coming up to cover his own where it cups her face. Her fingers slide alongside his, easy as breathing, and she blinks, sleepy and slow. “I was just dreaming about you.”

His eyes well up with stinging, idiotic tears, blurring her features, and he can’t fight it any longer. His head drops, and he lifts her up in his arms just enough to bury his face into her neck and sob. The cries come out of him like a dam that’s been broken. He can’t think to stop. He hears her say his name, concerned and loving, feels her hand smooth down the back of his head, and he falls apart.

“Shhh, shh,” she croons in his ear. “It’s alright, love, it’s alright. I’m okay. We’re both okay, we _made_ it. We made it through.”

The words just make him cry harder, horrible, aching sobs that hurt on their way out. Her hands slide up his back, holding him close, tender and comforting.

“Lis,” he gasps into her neck, a desperate prayer.

“Breathe, sweetheart, it’s alright,” she says, hushed and kind. “I must have been pretty banged up, to scare you like this. I’m so sorry. But it’s okay, I’m fine, and I made that stupid bloody archdemon eat dirt, alright?” 

Her words bottle his tears like a cork. At his sudden silence, she goes still beneath him. “I...I did kill it, right?” she asks, her calm voice suddenly anxious. “The Blight’s over?”

Maker’s breath. He leans back to look at her beautiful face, and finds the strength to speak. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, it’s over. The Blight. You did it, Lis.”

Her smile is crooked sunlight. “Good. There, see, we did it.” She reaches up to wipe her thumbs beneath his eyes, rubbing away his tears. “My gallant Ser-Cries-A-Lot. Everything is alright now—”

He kisses her.

She tastes like honey and the salt of his own tears. Her mouth is warm and soft and familiar, and the hand curled in her hair finds her neck to crush her to him, turning the kiss deeper, desperate. He kisses her like she’s air and he’s drowning, has been drowning for years and years, and finally he's broken the surface.

When he pulls back, the part of his heart that had been cut out and left to scar begins beating again, whole and heavy and alive. 

“I love you,” he says. His voice shakes with how much he means it. Ten years and it hasn’t faded. She’s part of his soul, stitched in like thread, and he loves her more than life, more than the entirety of Ferelden. And in his arms again, he knows he’s never letting her go.

Elissa’s eyes glitter in the candlelight. “I love you too,” she says, mischief curling at the corner of her mouth. “This is why I keep nearly dying, you know, you keep _kissing_ me like that. I’m only human, can’t resist the temptation.”

The words are a suckerpunch to the gut, and she must see it on his face because the mirth drains from her expression.

“Alistair,” she says, fingers tracing his jaw. “What is it?” 

Her fingers pause, and suddenly, her eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing.

“Ali,” she says quietly. 

Her eyes wander over his face, and he goes motionless. Fingers trace from his jaw across his stubble, up his cheeks, skimming the corners of his eyes, across his forehead and in between his eyebrows. Confusion spills across her lovely features. 

“I...you look...” Her voice trails off, confused. “Ali...you look... _older._ Why do you look older?” She meets his eyes, disconcerted. “Am I...am I dreaming?”

“No,” he whispers, taking her hand where it traces the age lines at the corner of his eye and clutching it. He drags it to his mouth, kissing the back. “No, you’re not dreaming. Lis...Lis, when you fought the archdemon...” His voice breaks off. He hasn’t spoken of that day in a decade, and even though she’s right here, the pain still splits through him at his core, deeper than any dagger’s blow. She waits, watching him, and his throat threatens to seal shut. “You...”

“I got hurt,” she finishes slowly, sorrowful. “Badly, didn’t I? Ali...I’m so sorry.”

She’s apologizing for _worrying him._ Maker, he could laugh at how inadequate the idea is, but it’s worse because some nights, he had _raged_ at her. Cursed at her image in his mind. Yelled himself hoarse at her, for leaving him, for giving up her life, for _dying,_ and in the darker moments he’d picture it with perfect clarity: her apologizing, holding him, saying she’d never leave him again.

He’d never once imagined he’d see her again before the Calling and the Deep Roads sent him to her side, and he’d never once dreamed that when they did meet, she wouldn’t realize just how long he’d been waiting.

“Lis,” he says, shaking his head. He swallows hard, damnable eyes tearing up once again. “You...you weren’t just hurt.” She stares at him, brows tented upwards, and he holds her tightly, as if the truth would send her slipping through his very fingers. “You...you _fell.”_

“I...” Elissa shakes her head slowly, uncomprehending.

“Lis. You _died._ ”

“What?”

“Lis—”

“What do you mean, I _died?”_ Elissa demands. “You believed I did? Did...did my heart stop? Maker. Alistair, I—” She reaches for him, to comfort him, but she doesn’t _understand._

“You died, as in _we buried your ashes._ ”

He could wince at the wording, but he needs to say it, that awful truth out loud, or neither of them will face it. She stares at him, dazed by his words.

“I—I don’t—”

“I look older because I am, Lis. The Blight’s over. The Battle at Denerim, the defeat of the archdemon...it was years ago. For me, it’s been...” He swallows. “It’s been ten years since I lost you.”

Elissa shakes her head, speechless. Ten years. Even to him, it’s inconceivable. But that’s how long he has trudged on without her.

“I know it doesn’t sound possible. I only just learned you were...” His voice stumbles, trailing off as his thumb traces slow circles across her hand, grounding himself. “Lis. A few days ago, something happened. A massive Fade rift opened in the middle of the Temple of the Sacred Ashes of Andraste. This woman, she was the only one to survive the explosion the rift created. She has this magic _thing_ , the ability to open and close rifts on her own. She closed the rift at the Temple but before she did...she pulled you through it. From the Fade. The _Veil._ She brought you _back,_ Lis.” His voice goes thick. “She brought you back to me.”

Thank the Maker. Thank the Maker for her.

“Alistair, that’s not—that doesn’t make any sense—”

“Lis,” he says, gently. He tries not to croak her name. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Her mouth closes, and her eyes go distant. “I...I was...” The faraway look in her eyes goes glassy, and he squeezes her hand. “I remember fighting. The archdemon falling. I...I fell too, I was so...I was so _tired_ and—” Her throat works and Alistair’s heart clenches tight in his chest. “I remember being scared. Not scared that I was dying, but scared that I was...that you were—” Tears well at the bottoms of her eyelids and her hand covers her mouth. “Alistair, I—”

He leans in, wrapping his arms around her, and holds her to his chest. She clutches at his shoulders, tucking her head into his shoulder. He closes his eyes, feeling her heartbeat through the thin points of her armor and grounding himself in its steady beat.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t get there fast enough, that I couldn’t—”

She shakes her head where she’s buried her face against him. “It’s not your fault, it’s not your fault. Alistair—”

“I—” His voice cuts off as though severed by a sword. He threads her fingers in her hair, pulls in the arm he has around her tightly to tether himself to her body. “I _missed_ you. _So_ much.” He can’t explain it in words, just how much he missed her, longed for her, ached that she was gone and he was still here. His throat feels like a strip of gravel and his voice sounds like mourning. She’s right here and still he’s grieving, and the feel of her, her presence, makes the pain all the more raw inside him.

But now, she’s here to hold him. Her hands wind around his back, her face pressed in against his chest. The _rightness_ of it shudders through him, rattling through the guarded foundation he’d constructed to keep himself steady and walking every day without her.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” Elissa whispers, muffled. “It was the last thing I remember thinking. That I didn’t want to leave you alone again. I’m—I’m so sorry,” she says again. Quietly, he feels rather than hears her begin to weep softly against him, her shoulders shuddering. Her tears break his heart almost as much as her words, and he kisses her forehead, eyes closed.

“It’s alright,” he says, and for the first time in a decade, it means it. “You’re here now. You’re here now and I’m—” He squeezes her unconsciously, as if his very body is determined to keep her against him. “Maker’s breath. I’m never going to let you go _anywhere_ again.”

A trembling laugh falls out of her, muffled against his collar, and he finds his own face splitting into a watery smile. _It’s alright_ , he thinks again. She’s right here. To stay.

It is the greatest gift he’s ever received. He feels at once so hideously, so overwhelmingly blessed that for a moment he cannot speak.

He gently tugs her back, to see her face. 

“I’m so...I’m so happy,” he says then, realizing it out loud. “I can’t believe that you’re here and that I’m holding you again. I never thought I would. I never thought—” Her face creases in emotion, edging towards tears once again, and he shakes his head. It was always his job to keep her from crying. He must remember that now. “Elissa. I _love_ you. And I’m never letting you go.” He sniffs, theatrically now, and her tearful face twitches in mirth. “Turns out not even death can separate us forever. Take that, archdemon.”

She smiles at him then, radiant, and he feels _elation,_ spreading throughout his entire body like magic.

“So,” she says, after a moment. “What’s...happened, since I was gone?” She inclines her head upwards, gesturing above his brow. “You’re looking very...kingly.”

A laugh bursts out of him. Maker, he’d missed how terribly silly she could be. Just like him. “Yes, well. I _am_ very kingly, believe it or not. Been king for ten years now. I’d even say things are going well, thank you very much. Er. Well, not _recently,_ actually.”

She smiles at him, indulgent and amused, and he missed _that_ too. Nobody ever appreciated his attempts at levity like her. “Mmm...I heard something about...a massive Fade Rift? Sounds scary.”

“It bloody well is, there’s a glowing hole the size of a small continent in the sky.” Her eyebrows shoot up. “I _know._ Very gloom and doomy. And...” He sighs heavily, shoulders slumping. “We lost a lot of people, when the Fade opened. The Divine was leading peace talks between the templars and mages, and the rift opening was like...an explosion. The entire Temple of Sacred Ashes is gone.”

“Maker above,” Elissa says, looking pale. “Who opened it? And why were there...peace talks, between templars and mages? Why here, in Haven, of all places?”

“Do you want the long story or the short one?” he asks her, and winces at her deadpan expression. “Right, so...a few weeks ago, a mage sort of...blew up the Circle of Kirkwall?” Her jaw drops open. “Yeahhh, it wasn’t pretty. The Circle had been...mistreating its mages pretty horribly, there was this thing with red lyrium and the Templar Commander turning into an evil lyrium rock monster...it was a lot.”

“Sure,” Elissa says, voice high. He can’t help but chuckle. Things have been going terribly for weeks now, gray tidings surrounding him, and she’s like...pure joy, the exact level of light-hearted he needs to keep above water. He _loves_ this woman.

“So there’s a sort of civil war between templars and mages now, and the head of the Chantry stepped in to mediate it. Haven was supposed to be neutral ground.”

“So all of your least favorite people in Ferelden gather together to try to stop being awful and someone bollocks it all up? You must be pleased.”

“ _Ecstatic,_ ” he says, and sighs again. She leans against him, reassuring, and quietly he revels in it. “Things...things aren’t going well, Lis. A lot of civilians have died. _My_ subjects. My responsibility. Someone is trying to destroy whatever fragile peace exists in Ferelden and I have _no_ clue who it is, and now there’s a giant, scary, glowy green hole in the sky that shits demons.”

“What a lovely image,” Elissa says, bemused. “I certainly woke up at an...interesting time.”

Woke up. Nice way of putting it. Simple, he thinks. A lot less weird. Didn't ache nearly as much. “That you did,” he says, and he reaches for her hand. “And I’m...so glad you’re here.”

Her hazel eyes shine in the low firelight. “I am too. I...I said that I love you, right? Because I do. Awfully, in fact. But...” Her throat constricts. “Ten years is a long time. I...I would understand...”

“ _Nothing_ has changed,” he says vehemently, and she blinks at him as he takes her chin. “Did you or did you not just hold me while I bawled over you like a child?” He shakes his head as she turns pink. “You’re…Maker, Lis. _Everything._ Eternity wouldn’t be long enough to stop me loving you.”

She sniffs, eyes glittering. “Okay. Good,” she says thickly, trying to quell her tears the way she always did when she wanted to look tough. It never worked—they’re both wretched crybabies—but the sight of her wiping tears away over a watery smile makes him feel like the luckiest man in all of Thedas.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” she continues, voice rough, “but alright. I’m certainly keeping you, then.”

His heart swells in his chest, twice its size. “You’d better.” A thought occurs and takes the wind out of his sails. “But...but there is something you should probably know. Um. Should definitely know. I remember the last time I kept an important secret from you and I barely escaped alive so...”

She scowls. “Ali, I hate suspense.”

“Yeah, okay, fair. So...” He sucks in a breath. “I’m sort of...married.”

She goes stiff in his arms, like a wooden board.

“To...Anora,” he finishes weakly, heart sinking. “Politically. Well. She’s my wife, officially, so I could be king and she could be queen.”

“...I see,” Elissa says, voice a little pitchy, and he all but seizes her shoulders.

“I don’t love her,” he says, so fast the words practically fly out of his mouth. “Never have. We’re not...we’re not like that. But after...” His voice goes thin. “After you died, and the Blight ended...Ferelden needed stability. Anora could’ve done it on her own, maybe, but she needed someone to give her Maric’s legitimacy, bastard though I am—” He waves a hand at himself. “And it had to be someone who would share power. I was...happy to do that. Well. _Fine_ with it. The people respected her, and I...just wanted to help. I needed to _do_ something, to help rebuild. Even if I couldn’t do it as a Warden.” A sea of guilt wells in his stomach, threatening to drown him. “Elissa...I’m—”

“Don’t apologize." He lets out a breath of relief at the gentleness in her voice, practically slumping before her. “I don’t _blame_ you. Maker, imagine how arrogant I’d have to be, to be angry that you have a life after _ten years._ It’s not like you could have anticipated I would...fall out of the Fade, you said?” He nods and she shakes her head, incredulous. “Right. Well, that’s...hardly expected, is it?" He can't help a snort, and she lifts a hand to trace his jaw. “Really, I'm...I’m so proud of you.”

His chest seems to cave in. “Truly?”

She nods, the edges of her mouth curled into a smile. “I'm sure you’re a wonderful king. You have the biggest, squishiest heart. Ferelden could’ve used it, after all its suffering.”

He looks at her, stunned, and kisses her again.

“I love you,” he says a moment later, wondrous against the side of her jaw.

“I love you, too,” she whispers. She taps him once with a finger across his lips. “So do I have time to get you out of all this fancy armor, or do we have important, nation-saving business to do?”

He gapes at her. Memories of her naked body comet across his mind and fill him with sudden, dizzying heat. “Uhh,” he says, reluctantly, and she sighs.

“Shame. I would like to see you in naught but that crown, sounds fetching.”

“You’re a madwoman,” he says, amazed. “You’ve been raised from the dead after a decade and the first thing you want to do is get naughty on this very flimsy cot.”

She shrugs. “I have priorities. Ten years is a long time—”

“Not for _you,_ evidently—”

“And a woman has her needs,” she finishes. He stares at her, actually considering it against his better judgement because it’s only been his every fantasy for an entire decade, when she laughs. "... I'm kidding. Obviously. But still, would be a storybook reunion, right?" A teasing smile crosses her face, curling through his gut like the embers of a campfire. Her hand lifts up, combing light fingers through the front of his hair. "You know, if I’d realized you’d be so handsome in ten years, I would have stolen your virtue even sooner.”

"My _virtue_ ," he splutters, before throwing his head back in a booming laugh. “Oh, Maker. You’re incredible, you know that? As...as _unbelievably_ eager as I am to have a. Erhm. _Proper_ reunion—and trust me I am, my brain is melting as we speak—I’m afraid we’ve people waiting on us to makes some very big and very important decisions. For Ferelden and all that. A few that would be very happy to see you again, actually.”

“Who?”

“Leliana, for one.”

She brightens. “She’s here?”

“Yes. She’s actually one of the heads of this little Inquisition.”

“Inquisition?”

“Little group trying to form and help take care of this whole bloody mess. Leliana, she became the Divine’s Left Hand. She and this Seeker, Cassandra—the _Right_ Hand—have been trying to form this since Kirkwall went up in flames. You’ll never believe who they asked to be the commander of the troops.”

"Erhm...”

“Remember that Knight-Commander, back in Kinloch Hold? That lone templar survivor?”

“Cullen?” Elissa says. Her face wrinkles. “The one who was tortured and told me to kill all the mages because he thought they were abominations?"

“Yep. That guy. Small world, huh?” He presses his lips together at her disapproving expression. “Listen, Lis. Ten years...it’s a long time for a person to change. Lucky for you I’m very stubborn when it comes to change and have always been pretty perfect—” She slugs him affectionately on the arm, “—but for everyone else, time has...passed. Cullen went from his station at the Circle to the one in Kirkwall.”

“The one that blew up?” She winces. “That is...rotten luck.”

“From what I heard, he turned against his commander, at the end. Because of what she was doing to the mages, and for...later, weirder things. Eugh. He left the Order. Genuinely wants to build towards peace, Leliana told me. Might have had a change of heart a little...late." He sighs, memories of Kirkwall stirring up ugliness in his gut. "But he wasn't the only one who stood by and let things get so bad." He swallows away the acrid taste of regret, looking down at her. "Something needed to be done, and the three of them, they're making it happen. Leliana, their plans...it's what convinced me to throw my lot in with them. I’m no fan of the Chantry, you know that. And you and I have seen the harm both mages and templars can do. It’s why this attack came at...the _worst_ time.” 

He closes his eyes, head canting. “My people _need_ stability. This...Breach is the cherry on top of a civil war between crazy, dangerous, _angry_ mages who’ve been hurt irrevocably and lyrium-high, uncompromising, _angry_ templars who fear the dangers of magic so much they're willing to hurt innocents. People...are dying, Lis. And those that aren't are terrified.” He shakes his head. “Now that we’ve lost the Divine and our neutral zone, I don’t know how we’re going to keep the mages and templars from tearing themselves apart. If the Breach and all the demons don’t kill us all first.”

“Alistair,” she says, and the sound of her voice draws him to open his eyes. The expression on her face is calm, confident. An anchor in a storm. They’re both sops, true, but he has never managed anything close to her serenity. Seeing it again takes his breath away. “We’ve faced a Blight. An archdemon. We can handle templars and mages. And it sounds like you’ve even got someone who’s weirdly good at closing giant evil holes in the sky.” Her fingers seek his and weave between them in a firm, comforting grip. “And I’ve heard Ferelden has a very capable, very attentive, and _very_ handsome Grey Warden king who is quite good at killing evil things.”

He feels his cheeks flood with warmth. “Well, when you put it like that...”

“Yes, exactly,” she says, smiling. “You might not even need me at all.”

His grip on her fingers goes almost painfully tight. “I’ll _always_ need you,” he says, voice low and ragged at the edges, and though the spark in her eyes flickers, her smile does not falter.

“Good," she says, and cranes up to press a kiss against his temple. "Because I’m going to be right next to you when we save the world. Again.”

She gets to her feet, dragging her with him. He follows, as he would follow her everywhere.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go see Leliana and talk with this magical fade-closing mage. I believe I have her to thank for raising me from the dead?”

“Do you think she’d like a castle? A province? Maybe her weight in gold and a puppy? How about a very nice signed letter saying ' _Thank you for breaking the laws of nature and giving me back my light of my life?'_ Doesn't seem adequate, but I’m not sure I’m allowed to give her the whole kingdom. I’ll ask the Landsmeet.”

Elissa laughs at him, cheeks pink. For a moment, all is right in the world, and the feeling has him hesitating by the door. As if it’d been kicked off a roof, his gut drops. They could just stay here, a convincing voice says in his ear. Never leave Haven, never leave this _room._ Everything outside is death and fear, it’s the real world, and in here with her…it isn’t. It’s better.

He feels her fingers thread through his. “I’m right with you,” she says. Reading his mind. She’s so lovely it hurts to look at her, but he’d rather give up his crown than look away. Countering the paranoia in his chest, possession creeps up his spine. The rest of the world can go hang, he thinks. She gave up everything for the lot of them, and now it’s _his_ turn.

But she’s a hero, and he knows better than anyone how grabby people get over anyone unlucky enough to bear their burdens.

Speaking of. “Err, by the way...” He runs a hand through his hair, minding his circlet. “This might sound odd, but you’re going to hear the title ‘Hero of Ferelden’ floating about a lot. And people might be weird and squeaky around you. You’re a bit...famous for sacrificing yourself to save the world, and there’s some stories and some songs and maybe a play or two. It’s fine, try not to think about it.”

“ _Hero of Ferelden?"_ she repeats, stupefied.

“Yep,” he says, beaming. “Enjoy fame. It has a few perks.” He winks. “I would know. Kings are sort of famous.”

"Sort of," she agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was so emo and fluffy i nearly died of high blood sugar while writing it. i ADORE writing Alistair, just as suspected. hope everyone enjoyed the reunion. there's a lot more warden x alistair build to come (it's not all done in a conversation oc) and it's going to be a ride.
> 
> next, comes Quizzy, and the rest of her soon-to-be advisors reacting to Elissa's return and the weird hole in the sky


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidah wakes up, and the Inquisition is reborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: this chapter contains references to torture and mildly graphic depictions of violence, as well addiction/withdrawal and the experiences of being triggered by traumatic memory (this chapter features Cullen's POV, and his canonical PTSD will be detailed and explored in this fic).

**chapter four**

Aidah stirs at the sound of creeping footsteps. Her first thought, other than the realization that her entire _body_ aches, is that someone is in her room. _Her cell,_ her subconscious corrects, and her groggy, achy, proper conscious responds, _oh, then whoever it is can bugger off._ But she’s much too warm and the blankets surrounding her are far too soft to be a wet dungeon floor, so maybe it’s worth opening her eyes to figure out where, exactly, she is. And determining if the trespasser is actually a very poor assassin.

She wrenches her eyes open, squinting blearily, and hears a gasp and a clatter as something falls to the ground. 

“Oh!” she hears, and Aidah cranes her neck to find the source of the racket. It’s one of her people, dressed in servant’s clothes. The sight is enough to have her sitting up straight in bed, her fatigue clearing like fog under the sun. Her muscles protest bitterly as she stretches upwards.

“I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” the elf gasps, looking shaken. The girl looks barely into adulthood, and she’s pale as a sheet.

“ _Atishan, da’len,_ ” Aidah whispers, lifting her hands. “No harm done.”

Suddenly, the girl falls to her knees, spreading her hands on the woolen rug beneath her. “I beg your forgiveness,” she says, voice quivering. Aidah gawks at her, stunned. “And your blessing. I am but a humble servant.”

Her first emotion is that of distaste: she could never bear to see one of her people prostrate themselves before humans. The second, on its curtails, is one of disbelief. She is _Dalish,_ what is the girl doing, asking for her blessing?

“It’s alright, young one,” she manages, through her shock. “Stand up, please, I—” The girl all but springs back to her feet at the order, and she withholds a sigh. “Please, tell me—what’s going on? Are we safe from the Breach?” _Did it work?_

“We’re in Haven, my lady,” the girl says, and there’s that strange current in her voice again, like the affect of children the first time they ride upon a hart. _Awe,_ she realizes, and directed at her. She cannot _fathom_ why. 

“They say you saved us,” the girl continues, and the wave of relief she feels at the words wipes away all immediate discomfort. If that’s true, they’re safe. She did it. She closed the Rift. “The Breach stopped growing, just like the Mark on your hand.”

The Mark. At the reminder, Aidah lifts her hand to stare. Against the hope she’d held that closing the rift would rid her of the strange magic for good, it remained, crackling faintly in the base of her palm with that unmistakable green light. At least it didn’t hurt anymore. Much.

“It’s all anyone’s talked about for the last three days!” the girl chirps, excited. Aidah’s chin jerks in her direction.

“Three days?” she asks, shocked. “I’ve been unconscious for three days?”

The girl blinks owlishly at her. “Yes, the healers have been looking after you. Everyone has been concerned, but I— _we_ were certain you would recover. The village, I mean. We’re all so grateful, my lady!”

 _Grateful_. That’s a new one. Just days ago she was a prisoner and assumed mass murderer, and now the whole bloody village is gossiping about her heroics. She eyes the Mark again, rueful. _Seems you’re good at more than just closing rifts._

“I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve awakened,” the elf said, anxious now and backing out of the room like a cornered fennec. "She said, ‘at once’!”

Aidah withholds a sigh. “And where is she?”

“In the Chantry, with the Lord Chancellor. At once, she said!” And just like that, the girl hares off, leaving Aidah staring after her and shaking her head. Brilliant. Now she was expected to meet the Seeker, and that abominable, shirty Chancellor Roderick. She can’t imagine what more the Chantry could want from her. Maybe to try to close the entire bloody Breach? Likely so, and likelier still it’d kill her for certain this time, if that one little rift was enough to knock her out for three days straight.

Alone, she sighs wearily, and takes note of her surroundings. They’re a sight more luxurious than the Haven dungeons. Perhaps she can take comfort in that. She may still be a prisoner of a kind, but at least her cell has down bedding and warm woolen rugs.

Dragging herself out of bed, she’s struck by the memory of what she last saw, before she’d slipped under. The woman. She’d brought a woman through the Breach. Amazement spills through her. Had she truly rescued the Divine? Surely the girl would have mentioned _that?_

 _Unless she didn’t survive,_ she thinks, and dread pools like molten metal in her stomach. The Fade is a dangerous place, even for mages. Divine Justinia had been an unarmed, defenseless elderly woman. There’s no way she could have survived the Fade this whole time, surely. 

Gathering herself, she moves towards the door of her new cabin. She has to find out. Even if she failed, she wants to hear with her own ears that the woman who’d tried to spare her from death was gone.

The morning is bright and glistening under a fresh blanket of snow, and she freezes with one foot out the door. Lined up by the dozens, there are people waiting on the road before her cabin. Soldiers and villagers, even children, watching. Staring at her, some with their arms crossed, some with their hands clasped as if in prayer. Others with shock, or suspicion. All looking at her.

“That’s her,” she hears whispered, as she moves forward with numb feet. She resists the urge to wrap her arms around herself in anxiety, under the eyes of so many strangers. In her experience, the spotlight is something to avoid at any cost, and their attention is as unfamiliar as it is unsettling. “That’s the Herald of Andraste.”

 _Herald? Andraste?_ What does that even mean? Do they not see the shape of her ears? Do they not remember spitting at her feet as Cassandra dragged her through the streets towards the Breach?

Swallowing hard, she retains a neutral expression and walks quickly through the crowd, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. The whispers follow her as she hurries up the frosty village path to the Chantry, and her gaze is dragged more than once to the Breach, which still swirls in the clouds like a funnel of magic.

When she enters the Chantry, the whispering is replaced by the heated exchange of an argument. She recognizes the loud voices of the Seeker and the Lord Chancellor long before she reaches a room at the back of the Chantry Hall, echoing through the solid wood construction of its door. She hesitates, listening in on the conversation before entering.

“I do not believe that—”

“That is _not_ for you to decide. Your duty is to serve the Chantry—”

“My _duty_ is to serve principles on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor. As is yours.”

Swallowing her nerves, Aidah lifts a hand, fingers sliding around the door handle and tugging it open. Silence falls as she enters the room, the sound of the door closing behind her rumbling across the space with an uncomfortable finality. The Seeker and the Chancellor both turn their gazes on her, with varying levels of hostility in their eyes. At the corner of the broad table separating her from the rest of the room, the ginger-haired woman from earlier— Leliana—hovers, watchful.

“Chain her,” the Chancellor snaps, and Aidah stiffens like a statue. Her palms sweat, itching for a staff to defend herself. “I want her prepared for trial at the capital.”

“Disregard that,” Cassandra says immediately, waving a hand. Aidah lets out a quiet breath, heart hammering against her ribcage. “And leave us.”

Behind her, the soldiers guarding the door drag their hands to their breastplates in deference and bow out of the room. It’s evident who the men respect as the authority, at least. Luckily, that authority seems to be in her corner. _For now,_ she thinks warily _._

The Chancellor’s nostrils flare. “...You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.” That his will is so easily circumvented, even by mere guardsmen, clearly stings.

“The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat,” Cassandra says, expression a balance of anger and soldierly righteousness. “I will _not_ ignore it.”

“But you allow the greater danger, right under your nose!” the Chancellor says, face growing ruddy with rage.

“...I see I’m still a suspect,” Aidah finds herself saying, voice dry. _Hold your tongue,_ her Keeper whispers chidingly in her ear, and she buries a wince. She should slip away unnoticed and out the door while she can, should sneak across Haven and sprint for the hills before they throw her at another hole in the sky, but because she’s a fool, her indignance takes precedence over self-preservation. “Should I try harder to die in my next attempt to save your lives?”

The Chancellor’s eyes narrow into slits at her cheek. “You’re the _only_ suspect,” he growls.

“No, she is not,” Cassandra says. “And after what she _did—”_

“Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave,” Leliana interrupts, gaze trained on Roderick. “Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others...” The red-haired human slowly circles the table, arms crossed. “Or perhaps they have allies who yet live.” Her tone hones to a piercing edge.

“ _I_ am a suspect?” the Chancellor splutters, taken aback. 

“You, and many others,” Leliana says, her voice dark with veiled threat, and Aidah watches the woman with intent. Unlike Cassandra, this is a woman whose strengths are more subtle—but are no less lethal. She’d heard of Justinia’s Left Hand before arriving to Haven, knew she would likely have to dodge her eyes as well as the eyes of her people if she was to pass any good information to her clan. In person, the Nightingale is just as intimidating as her reputation.

“But not the prisoner?” Roderick demands. “The only survivor of the explosion at the Conclave, with a brand of dark magic on her body, and she’s _not a suspect?_ You are blinded by that so-called _woman_ she dragged from the Fade with her unholy magic—"

Through the Chancellor’s grating facetiousness, his actual words sink in, and words blurt out of her mouth. “Woman? Is—is she alright?”

Leliana and Cassandra both blink and turn to her. A beat, and the former nods. 

“...Yes.” Cassandra says slowly. “She is well. But she has not awoken. We believe that—”

“What you _believe_ is a lie at best and heresy at worse!” the Chancellor interrupts, voice venomous. “This—this _elf_ is a danger to us.” Aidah presses her lips together, saying nothing. She’d be waiting for it, for the prejudice she’d heard and seen so much of among the human people. If not judgment of her race, then for the magic she could wield. “And that woman in there—” Roderick points a finger in the air, towards a closed door at Aidah’s right, gaze rounded on Leliana and Cassandra. “Whatever dark magic bore her, she is _not_ a blessing from our Maker. More likely she is a demon sent by our enemy. Or worse _,_ she’s a complicit agent in the murder of her Most Holy and should head to the gallows with this apostate!”

“I hope you have evidence for your claims, chancellor,” a voice says, and Aidah turns in surprise. In the open doorway where Roderick had been pointing, a man now stands, a grey, fur-ruffed cape on his shoulders, dressed in subtle blue silks and grey dress armor finer than she’s ever seen. “Otherwise, I might do something ugly, and then I’ll get a very unhappy letter from my advisors about Chantry-crown relations.” The words are lofty, but the tone surrounding them is iron-clad.

“Your Majesty!” the Chancellor gasps, bowing so quickly she can practically hear the bones in his miserable spine crack. Aidah’s stomach plummets.

 _Your Majesty?_

The circlet crown woven around his ginger blond hair is unmistakable, cool metal flashing like the pair of eyes set below it. The crowned man steps into the room, pointing at his own handsome face. 

“This? This is my angry face, chancellor,” he says, his casual words barbed at their edges. “I would recommend you tread carefully with your words _and_ your tone until it changes.”

“Your Majesty,” the Chancellor says again, stammering in his half-bent snivel. “F-Forgive my impertinence, I was merely speaking of—”

“Matters you do not understand?” the man (the _king_ ) finishes coldly. “We all make mistakes.” The Chancellor blanches, and takes a wise step backwards.

“Alistair,” Leliana says gently, and Aidah feels like the room is spinning. Alistair. His Majesty. _King Alistair._ Of _Ferelden._ Is in the same _room_ with her. She should be bowing, yes? All-father, she should bow before she gets beheaded—

“Leliana,” King Alistair replies, and the sharp edge to his voice and expression fades. Light sparks in his brown eyes, and a slow smile curls at the edge of his mouth. “There’s someone who would like to see you.”

He steps to the side, and from behind him, a woman comes forward.

Leliana goes rigid where she stands, and Aidah watches as shock and disbelief roll across her face. Beside her, Cassandra stares too, eyes wide with amazement.

The woman, her long blonde hair a mess, treads closer beside King Alistair, and Aidah watches as her face transforms into a smile.

“Leliana,” she says, grinning, and like a bird, she suddenly darts forward. Aidah gawks as the woman dives for the Nightingale and folds her into a hug. Leliana’s stoic face crumples in what can only be joy.

“ _Elissa,"_ the Nightingale whispers, her Orlesian voice thick with emotion. Her hands come up to reciprocate the hug, and the woman—Elissa—beams.

“I’m told it’s been a while,” Elissa says, and her accent has a crispness Aidah’s only heard from Ferelden nobility. Leliana shakes her head over the woman’s shoulder, her red eyebrows crashing together over closed eyes.

“Only a decade or so,” Leliana says quietly. “I’m—” Her voice breaks and rapidly rebuilds. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“Me too.” Elissa pulls back, holding the spymaster’s hands in hers between them. “Seems like you’ve been through a lot since I last saw you.” Aidah watches as the stranger squeezes Leliana’s fingers. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Alright may be an operative word,” Leliana says softly, the happiness in her expression fading into a stonier sort of sorrow. However, the glimpse of vulnerability is quickly swept away before Aidah’s eyes as the redheaded human straightens. “You have missed much, my friend. You did not return to a Thedas at peace. But I’m...so grateful you’re here. We... _I_ could use a friend. And your help.” 

“I heard,” the woman replies, a gentle smile crossing her face. “Something about a Fade rift, a massive hole in the sky, and a certain special mage?”

 _Shit,_ Aidah thinks, stomach curdling in dread.

Leliana nods, eyes flickering to Aidah, and the woman turns in her direction. Hazel eyes fall on her, probing but not suspicious.

“So,” she says. “I heard I have you to thank for returning me from the dead?”

Aidah stares at her. _What?_

“Um. I beg your pardon?”

“You’re not the elven mage with the magical hand that dragged me out of the Fade?” the woman presses, a thick eyebrow going up. Aidah falls back on her heels, shoulders slumping.

“I—yes, that’s me. But...” She shakes her head once, uncomprehending. “You’re not the Divine.” 

Everyone in the room seems to stiffen like deer after a hunter’s sigh, all of them blinking at once. The woman’s other eyebrow rises to join its scarred twin. 

“Oh,” she says. “Well, you’re right about that.”

“You...when you reached into the Fade, you intended...” The Seeker Cassandra trails off, and understanding crosses her face before dissolving, briefly, into grief. “I see.”

“I take it I’m not here...intentionally, then,” Elissa says, and her perturbed expression is a poor attempt at opacity. Her gaze flickers once to the King standing silent at her side, who is looking at her with a conflicted expression on his noble face. “Well. That doesn’t exactly clarify things, does it?”

Aidah’s mind whirls. “I thought...I thought that the woman that had been seen in the Fade...that perhaps, it was the Divine. I tried...I thought she might still be alive, so I tried to...” She bites the inside of her cheek, struggling to articulate what she still doesn’t understand herself. “I felt this _connection,_ to someone. Through the Fade. When I opened the rift I just... _pulled._ You were the woman that came through?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Elissa says. Beside her, Leliana gravitates somewhat closer to her, and the King physically presses against her other side. Bracketed by friends, Aidah realizes, and her mind points out a particularly glaring missing puzzle piece. 

“You said... _returned from the dead?"_

A mirthless smile hooks the corner of the stranger’s mouth. “Apparently. I’ve been...gone quite a long time, it seems. When you pulled me from the Fade, you didn’t drag me from a dream. Or even the Fade itself. I wasn’t _there_ in the first place.”

Aidah shakes her head immediately, rejecting the idea at face value. “That’s not—”

“Possible?” Elissa rubs at her arms, and Aidah watches with wide eyes as the King of Ferelden slowly winds an arm around the woman’s waist, as familiar and reassuring as a lover. “From what I hear, the past few days have been a series of impossible things.”

She squares her shoulders, and her smile becomes slightly more genuine, wry. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Elissa Cousland. I’m a Grey Warden. _Someone—”_ She tilts her head towards the King at her side, hazel eyes sparkling. “Informs me that name might be...familiar, to some people.”

Aidah stares, and distantly feels her mouth drop open. Elissa Cousland. She hasn’t heard that name in years, since she stopped attending Keeper Istimaethoriel’s fireside tales for the younglings, but it rings through her ears like familiar bells, striking at the _da’len_ inside her that so cherished garish tales of bloody victory and sacrifice. She watches the woman— _the Hero,_ her mind whispers, frantic, shaken, stunned, _the Hero of bloody Ferelden—_ shift awkwardly, leaning slightly into the crowned regent at her hip.

“You’re—” Aidah’s voice snaps in two, like a dead tree branch underfoot. “You’re—”

“Told you so,” King Alistair says lowly. “This is going to happen a lot.” He huffs as Elissa elbows him— _the Hero of Ferelden,_ her mind shouts, _and bloody King Alistair of bloody-buggering Ferelden—_ and mutters something at him. Beside them, Leliana’s hand covers her mouth briefly, amusement filling her grey eyes.

Aidah’s rational mind can’t accept this. “You can’t—You’re—”

“I’m afraid so,” Elissa replies. 

“By the way,” the King of Ferelden says, addressing her directly. His eyes are shining and keen, boring into her. “I believe I owe you something like...my eternal gratitude and patronage, or something. And maybe a province. Would you prefer a castle or a villa? Both can come with moats.”

Aidah stares, gobsmacked, and her eyes flicker once to the hand still wrapped around the Warden’s waist. She lifts a hand and stares at her palm with something between awe and horror. 

_Creators above._

What has she done? 

<><><><><>

Once Chancellor Roderick had begun heating up beneath his overly starched collar, Cullen had quickly excused himself. He has no patience for the man, nor his vicious little plays for power dressed like preaching, but he isn’t so foolish to assume throwing him out on his Chantry rear-end would come without consequences. So, to spare himself and his colleagues the political disaster that could emerge from his poor temper, Cullen left the frothing chancellor to Cassandra and Leliana, who could no doubt deal with him more effectively—or, come to it, dispatch the man with lesser fallout.

Instead of returning to his exhaustive list of duties, however, he finds himself hovering outside the door in the empty hall, gaze lingering on the silent guard posted there. On the noble markings engraved into their breastplates. Maker. _King Alistair of Ferelden._

It's been years since he’s seen His Majesty in person. Alistair had been far from the king of Ferelden, then. Just a Grey Warden, following the Hero, charging in to invoke the ancient treaties and finding themselves completely over the heads with the horror that met them at Kinloch.

Seeing Elissa Cousland again had shaken things loose inside him. Things he’d buried deep under bedrock, away from his conscious mind, dragged to the surface only in nightmares. Memories of his first Circle all those years ago have resurged with vigor, intruding upon his thoughts with cruel irregularity, and now, Alistair’s presence has taken the edges of those old pains to whetstone. Standing alone in the company of quiet guardsmen, Cullen feels...raw.

What must His Majesty think of him now? he wonders. The idea curdles in his gut, making him ill. Ten years ago, Cullen had almost lost his mind. Alistair and the Warden Commander had both been there, seen him on his knees, caged and broken. Had watched him scream and weep and curse at them, terrified, convinced of nothing but the promise of pain and the inevitable death surely coming for him.

Sometimes, Cullen thinks he actually _did_ go mad that night. That the years between him and that horror are only steps towards forgetting, as opposed to healing. That he is irreparably damaged, and that it’s a knuckle-bones gamble every morning that determines his sanity. His nightmares have hardly faded since Kinloch; rather, they've evolved. Memories of Kirkwall have joined old apparitions, wedded fire and blood to visions of possessed mages butchering his friends. But in dreams, sometimes, it isn’t him breaking beneath magic that tears through the mind like knives. Sometimes, he’s the one looming, his own hand slowly pushing daggers into the hearts of sobbing mages, soul black with hatred and satisfaction as Meredith smiles like a devil at his shoulder.

 _Enough reminiscing._ He swallows hard and imagines a wall that comes down brick by brick between memories, old dreams, and himself. Cements the cracks with mortar, sealing away the fear creeping through as he breathes slowly out his nose. He grounds himself in the distant groaning of the Chantry ceiling under Haven’s winter wind, in the faraway chatter of the brothers and sisters puttering throughout the hall, and in the sound of rising voices coming from the door as Cassandra and the Chancellor begin to argue in earnest.

 _I am here,_ he thinks, a familiar mantra. _I am here. I am in Haven. I am awake._

His skin seems to tighten over his bones, muscles contracting in aching, sickly yearning. 

_I do not need lyrium._

He breathes in and breathes out, and leaves the silent guard behind as he makes for the hall entrance.

Work. He must work. That’s what will keep him sane. Luckily for him, there is much to be done.

* * *

Not a full hour passes before he’s summoned back by one of Leliana’s messengers. He straightens over the latest reports of their supplies and ration divvies when she finishes her message, and feels his pulse quicken with something caught between anticipation and anxiety.

 _The Herald is awake,_ Leliana’s woman said, a little breathy even for one meant to be faceless in delivery. He cannot fault her. The words are a rallying call on their own. The Herald, as they call her now, could be their last hope for closing that cursed Breach above their heads and ending this nightmare. He can still hardly believe that the elf, Lavellan, was capable, that she had such powerful magic: the woman he’d seen had been slight, her dark skin sallow, her long black curls matted and chaotic. Hardly a messenger of the Maker, not only for the woman’s race, but for her thin stature and eventual, significant state of injury. 

But she had done the impossible, _wore_ the impossible on her hand, and Elissa Cousland was alive after ten years gone. He could no sooner deny that than the Fade rift itself.

Cullen cannot claim the absolute faith of his colleagues. Cassandra is a pillar of belief, unshakable, her Seeker training and power of reflection humbling even when he disagreed with her. Leliana’s conviction is quieter, but no less enduring; she was once a sister, after all, and had not dedicated her life to the Divine with anything less than full devotion. Cullen had been a templar, true, had committed himself to becoming someone who could help, who could _save_ people, and as a result he had studied the Canticles, the Maker’s words, and the Chantry tenants in his training with the same drive that he studied the blade, the poleaxe, his own neutralizing incantations. He had never bought fully into the mandate “magic was made to serve man”, but he had not fought against it, so in truth and in action, it hadn’t mattered what he believed. He’d served the Order with stubborn wholeheartedness, even as it had dragged him to the edge of damnation.

But the elf and the Hero. The death of the Divine and the loss of the Conclave. The gaping, glowing void in the sky, spinning with magic beyond all their imaginations and fears. To comprehend what lay before him, he can’t help but ask himself questions—new and old. Questions that have haunted him from the moment he left Honnleath. Uncertainty he had ignored until he found himself standing beside a knight-commander transformed into an abomination that he had almost allowed, almost himself _become_. 

_Why? What does this mean? Is the Maker truly with us? Do his Works move among us? Does His will walk or speak?_

_Has His Bride sent us her champion, who granted us another in our darkest hour?_

He dismisses the messenger, and makes towards the Chantry hall with a tremor in his hands. To steady himself, he rests his grip on the holstered sword at his hip, his other hand closing around the joint of his wrist so he does not shake it in its sheath with his rigidness.

The King’s guard part for him, and he nods at their featureless helmets. Clenching his jaw, he lifts a hand and opens the meeting hall’s door, only to see someone standing directly before him, blocking his path with her back.

She turns, facing him, and Cullen’s stomach drops.

It’s the Herald, awake and staring at him. 

She looks healthy, now. Her brown skin is warm, with even darker freckling, and her bright brown eyes seem to spark in the torchlight, like fire through bourbon. Her hair, now clean, is still ludicrous in its length, voluminous locks falling like a curtain from her head all the way to her hips, her thin, tapered ears parting through a sea of sable curls.

She watches him, her chestnut eyes narrowing, and he resists the urge to falter under her gaze. The last time someone looked at him like that, he was a knight-commander.

“Herald,” Cassandra says from behind her. “This is the commander of our forces, Cullen Rutherford.”

As summoned, he steps forward, bowing his chin respectfully. "My lady," he says, and watches her lips press together at the title. Unfamiliar as it may be to her, he doesn't plan on calling her anything else; he was uncertain of 'Herald', at least to her face, 'Lavellan' was oddly informal, and he was hardly going to call her _elf._

“And I believe, Warden-Commander, that an introduction for you is not necessary.”

Shock reverberates through him and he forcibly tears his gaze away from the Herald to the woman standing immediately behind her, across the massive table, with the king standing proudly at her side.

“Hello, Cullen,” Elissa Cousland says, and he cannot help but stare as she offers him a small smile. “I’m told it’s been a long time.”

The sound of her voice is a battering ram to the barricade in his mind, but he ignores the baseless panic that wells up in him in favor of a much stronger emotion. “My lady,” he says, almost hushed in awe. “It...it is good to see you well. It has indeed been...a long time.”

Her eyes, set in a face unaltered by time, track his figure, moving in a swift and careful sweep up his body. Appraisal. He has been evaluated by her gaze before, and he dreads what she must see in him now, if all she knows of him is the man he was a decade ago.

A beat, and the discerning glint to the Warden’s eyes softens. “Elissa,” she says, unexpectedly. He blinks at her in surprise. “Please. Highever, no doubt, has a new teryn, and the title I have now lies only in the Grey.” Her voice is calm and even, an aristocratic lilt in its edges; it is just another reminder, a gust of wind blowing across dusty memories in the attic of his mind. “Besides, I’m not much a fan of _hero._ ” Her smile returns, briefly, and she dips her chin. “It is good to see you well, Commander.”

At her side, the King is looking down at her with an enamored expression on his face, and Cullen resists the urge to stare. At the two of them, yes, at their open intimacy, but also at the sincerity on the Warden’s face. It seems to her, despite everything, the past is simply that. She doesn’t seem to acknowledge the hysterical soldier he once was, that she last knew him to be, and appears to accept his new title—in this new time—without question. Somehow the idea floors him, sending him back on his heels. _He_ can barely accept the honor and responsibilities of his new post, after everything that he has done, and he has held it for months now. 

“Thank you,” he says, voice only just betraying his wonder. He must cling to his training now, to professionalism; give her no reason, more than she already possesses, to disbelieve in his capabilities. She nods, and her head turns to the Herald at his left.

“Speaking of titles,” she says. “Before we get down to business...do you prefer Herald or would your name suit better?” A beat, and the Warden tips her head. “What _is_ your name, by the way?”

A sharp, sudden laugh bursts from the elf’s mouth, almost making him jump. She shakes her head, looking only slightly mad. But perhaps that’s just _everyone,_ Cullen thinks ruefully, considering the current state of affairs. 

“You’re the only person in this entire village who has asked me that,” she says, smile humorless.

He immediately tenses in shame. Is that right? It does not surprise him, but it does make his stomach turn. Leliana’s report had been informative, and they’d had no need to ask the woman herself for her name, but that’s hardly the point she’s making now. He glances around to see Leliana and Cassandra wearing the same expression he must have on his own face. The Chancellor, who miraculously has not said a word, bears a much murkier expression.

The King, however, looks oddly smug.

“We’re sorry for that,” Cassandra says then, first to lay down her pride. “It has been...a difficult time. We have forgotten ourselves.”

“It’s alright,” the elf says tiredly. “Exchanging pleasantries with someone you think is a mass murderer is hardly expected.”

“Nevertheless,” Leliana says, tilting her head inquiringly.

The elf presses her lips together. “Aidah,” she says, stretching the ‘a’. “My name is Aidah.” Her features flicker with a faint scowl. “Though I suppose Lavellan is better than _Herald of Andraste,_ considering that I’m _Dalish._ ”

Cassandra and Leliana both make attempts to corral their expressions, but Cullen does not bother to withhold his own wince.

“Even still,” she continues quietly. “Herald is better than ‘apostate’, or ‘knife-ear’, I suppose.”

Cullen presses his lips together at the reminder. It’s not only the Mark on her hand that is capable of magic. As for the slur, well. He can only hope it's not his men flinging such filth, but it's a fool's hope. No manner of punishment or lecturing can change prejudice where it lives, in times of fear.

There is a beat of silence, before Elissa firmly clears it away. “Aidah it is, then,” she says. “What use are grand titles, anyways, when there is a hole in the sky that needs sealing?”

She has a point, and seriousness descends upon the room like matching cloaks upon their shoulders.

“Our scouts have monitored the site of the temple and the Breach. We’ve seen no sign of demons since you closed the Breach...Aidah. The threat of attack, from the Fade at least, has been reduced, if not eliminated. For now, we can take a breath.”

Cullen watches Aidah sigh heavily. “That’s good,” she says, looking weary. “I’m not sure I’m ready to close another one, so soon.”

“We wouldn’t ask you to,” Cassandra says, and Roderick makes a contentious noise at her elbow. “Though you were successful, you nearly died in the attempt, and you weren’t the only one affected, either. The Hero, it seems, shares the burden of your efforts when you use your Mark.”

Lavellan’s dark eyebrows go up. “What does that mean? You said she hadn’t woken but...”

“Solas says the two of you are...connected,” Leliana explains, and Cullen can’t help but concur with the disturbed expression that crosses Aidah’s face. Bad enough to be branded with strange magic, wielding unprecedented power, but to be so tied to another? It was all so frustratingly _strange._ Cullen wanted to scream, if he pondered on it too long.

“If you could... _elaborate_ on that, Leliana, we would appreciate it,” His Majesty says, speaking for the first time since Cullen walked in. His affable voice is strained with low currents of concern, and Cullen can’t help but notice how he speaks for both Elissa and himself together, as a unit. His right hand is wrapped possessively around the woman’s side, as though to tie her there permanently, and the vision of him going still like a statue at first sight of her still lingers in Cullen’s mind.

“I’m sure he could explain better than I, but Solas—he is an elven scholar, a mage and an ally—claims to have detected a similar...thread of magic within Elissa. A weak twin of the magic that fuels Aidah’s Mark. When Aidah was exhausted by closing the Rift and as far as we know, returning you... _here,_ Elissa would not wake. He explained it as a sharing of energy. Because Aidah was unconscious and injured, Solas theorized that you were... _giving_ him some of your own, or at least, that she was pulling more energy to compensate from a reservoir you must now share.”

Alistair looks a reasonable combination of perplexed and bemused. “Is it just me or does that not make much sense at all? I'm no mage but magic doesn't _work_ like that, does it? Not normally?" His voice drops to a mutter. "Not like any of this is normal."

Elissa shakes her head, scarred brow furrowing. “And I’ve no magic to spare. Unless bring brought back _gave_ me some.” She chuckles without humor. “Doubt it, but it’s wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve heard today.”

“Solas said you were human,” Leliana supplies, “But not a mage.”

“Thank the Maker for that,” Alistair mutters. “We’ve enough problems.” Internally, Cullen concurs. A Warden brought raised from the dead with magical powers? The Breach was complicated enough.

“But the connection was there _before_ I brought her back,” Aidah interrupts. “It’s why I reached for her in the first place. Why would we..."share" energy now?” She shakes her curly head, eyebrows crushing together in thought. "Energy. Vague bloody term," she mutters, seemingly to herself. "It can't be normal magic because the Hero isn't a mage, doesn't make any _sense."_ Cullen watches quietly as irritation works its way across her delicate features, her voice dropping even lower to murmur a few curses in Elven, and finds himself almost amused by her increasing vexation.

 _Focus,_ he thinks, annoyed with himself. Clearly, he's surpassed his own madness into full lunacy. Amused by strange and dangerous magic. He knows one Champion who would scoff at him now if he were here.

“What happens if I’m hurt? Or she is? Will closing rifts always hurt us both?” Elissa muses aloud, and the thought is a troubling one. The King looks mildly alarmed by the query, and the Warden shakes her head once at him, a nonverbal entreaty to table his concerns for now. She crosses her arms, shifting her jaw. “You said we were connected...before. I doubt it was luck, that I happened to be the soul you dragged here. I…I left this world ten years ago. It _must_ be tied to your Mark. There’s no other explanation. But for the life of me—” She pauses, huffing a laugh at her own wording, and Leliana and Alistair both roll their eyes. “—I can’t explain why _I_ would be connected to it, if I was still...gone, when the Conclave exploded.”

“Clearly, this is a matter worth investigating. Your mark, and the magic within it, Aidah...it’s the most powerful thing any of us have ever witnessed.” Leliana’s voice deepens, grave. “The most _dangerous_ thing we’ve ever witnessed. But unfortunately, there is no immediate path that I can see to understanding it, other than determining who exactly was responsible for the attack on the Conclave.”

Leliana shifts, her grey eyes moving to the faded map spread out on the broad table before them. “And there are other problems demanding our attention. Problems that must be resolved, and quickly. The people here weren’t the only ones affected by the attack. The collapse of the peace talks between templars and mages, as well as the death of the Divine, has sent ripples throughout Ferelden and Orlais.”

“I’m afraid that’s an understatement,” Alistair says tiredly. “Even at Redcliffe, people are on the edge of fighting in the streets. That may have changed even since I left. The surrounding Hinterlands have been flooded by an influx of rebel mages and templars, and it’s been a nightmare trying to stomp them out. Our soldiers weren’t trained for guerilla warfare.”

“We need organization,” Cassandra insists. “Infrastructure. The people need to know there is help coming, and we need the stability of a cohesive force. I have been studying the Divine’s writ for weeks and...I don’t know if we’re _ready,_ but there is little choice now.”

At her left, the Chancellor narrows his eyes. “What are you talking about, Seeker?”

Eyes flashing, Cassandra turns on a heel to pluck a massive tome from the bookshelf behind her. In a fluid motion, she slams it down on the table, and embedded on its cover is a massive eye, surrounded by the ubiquitous Chantry sunburst.

“I will not pretend,” Cassandra says slowly, looking up at Aidah. “That we—that _I_ was right in accusing you in the first place. I also cannot pretend that you weren’t exactly what we needed, when we needed it. You brought back a living hero from the Maker’s side with a magic that I can only find to be...miraculous. In any other circumstance, I would even call it providence.” Cullen watches Lavellan's dark eyebrows go up at the word, surprised, as Cassandra continues. "I might still. Your abilities are... _will_ be vital for our efforts, Aidah."

“The Breach remains a threat, even if the demons and spirits have stopped coming,” Leliana adds, voice firm. “We _need_ your help. If you will grant it to us.” 

“That is _not_ for you to decide,” the Chancellor snaps suddenly, stepping forward. "She's an apostate! A criminal! You can't just—" 

“Oh, we _can_ ,” Alistair fires back, and Cullen watches with no little satisfaction as Roderick immediately quails. How he could forget the King himself was in the room was beyond imagining, but arrogance was so often blinding. “I was on my way to the Conclave myself to give the Inquisition my support when we heard of the attack. The threat posed by the mages and the templars alone was enough to warrant an independent governing body to deal with it. I’m willing to grant Cassandra and Leliana’s proposition the official support of the Crown.”

Alistair draws up, his hand dropping from Elissa’s waist as his voice hardens. Before Cullen’s eyes, the youthful levity and easy nature characteristic of the man ebbs away, replaced by an undeniable authority. Cullen goes to attention almost unconsciously, and he watches as the Warden cranes up to look at him, her gaze fixed on his resolute expression.

“The Divine is dead, and the templars and mages are now moments from full-scale war with one another. Someone is responsible for the massacre of thousands, has deliberately brought chaos and bloodshed in my kingdom in the attempt to sabotage peace. Whoever they are, they must be stopped. But until they’re apprehended, I am not ashamed to admit that my army will not be enough to contain the situation at hand. Ferelden needs stability. The Chantry is in pieces, our lands are now a battlefield, and Orlais is busy warding off a damn coup and the whole of Tevinter. We _need_ another assembly. An autonomous, capable strongarm to step in and clean things up before things get even worse. Ferelden _needs_ the Inquisition.” 

Emboldened by the king’s determined support, Cassandra lays a hand on the book she’d placed on the table. “The Divine also gave us her own authority to act, should it be necessary.” She inhales, squares her shoulders. “As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn. With His Majesty’s support and the Most Holy’s guidelines, we have what we need to become official.”

“Except a leader, numbers, and Chantry support,” Cullen says, voice dry despite himself. He tries not to wince when their eyes move upon him, but Aidah coughs in amusement at his side.

“...But you do have me, I suppose,” she says, lifting her dark head. Across the table, Cassandra and Leliana light up like candles, and even he can't bury the relief that spills inside him. They could hardly hope to close the Breach without her. “Me and my...glowy hand are at your service." Her mouth gains an acerbic twist. "Figured I wouldn’t be allowed to leave anyways, but it's the thought that counts, yes?”

“You’re not a prisoner here,” Cullen says immediately, frowning at the idea. Her tone may have been light, but her words—what they implied—made his chest clench. When her eyes meet his, skeptical brown, the feeling worsens, regret digging itself into his gut. “Not any longer, that is.”

“You are...welcome to leave,” Cassandra confirms. “We will not force you to stay if it is not what you wish. But...”

“I’m the only one who can close Fade rifts, I have a mysterious connection to a resurrected Grey Warden hero, and now I have insane magic that ties back to a mass murderer and likely the only person who knows how to get rid of this thing.” She lifts her hand, which glows with an almost imperceptible green light, and sighs heavily.

“Sounds like a good summary of events,” Elissa pipes up, and smiles wryly. “Staying to fight the good fight then?”

“Looks like I don’t have much choice,” Aidah replies. “I will need to send word to my people but...for now, you’ve got my help. I won’t pretend I’m not in it mostly for my own reasons, but even I can’t ignore the hole in the sky. It’s a threat to my clan, as well, not just the villagers here at Haven...” She purses her lips, looks up. “And if I can help, I suppose I will. All-Father help me.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra says humbly, and Cullen swallows his own appreciation as the Seeker rounds the table, and reaches out a hand. Aidah blinks at it for a moment, before lifting her own—the unmarked hand—to grip Cassandra’s glove in a firm shake. “That is all we ask.”

“...It appears we have work to do,” Leliana says, as Cassandra drops the elf’s hand. “I will send out ravens. Alistair, I assume you have your own missives to send? Your authority will go a long way in convincing the rest of the nation to support our cause.”

“You mean your upstart heretical movement born from a terrifying explosion? Can’t imagine why people would be weary,” Alistair says. “But yes. I will join you in a moment.” He sighs. “I need to think about what I’m going to tell Anora. She’s going to have me assassinated for this.”

“You better be kidding,” Elissa says, twisting around to look at him.

“Only sort of,” Alistair says, wincing. “She didn’t exactly...know that I was coming to the Conclave to support a new Inquisition.” At once, everyone in the room turns to him, and he shifts only slightly under the attention. “We’ve had a hundred fights over the role of the Crown in mitigating peace between the templars and the mages. Even before Kirkwall went up, we disagreed, but Maker knows we disagree on almost everything regarding the Chantry." His expression twists in displeasure. "When she reads that I signed off on an Inquisition without consulting her—even though I _know_ it’s the right thing to do—she’s liable to send me a letter enchanted to scream at me. And maybe set my hair on fire.”

The Warden looks, for the first time, grave. “And when she hears I’m alive?”

The king opens his mouth, but no words come out. His expression goes tight, voice dropping low. “I don’t know,” he says simply. “It’s...obviously your being here is the most brilliant, miraculous thing to ever happen, ever, but I can’t tell you that things aren’t going to get... _really_ complicated now, because of it. We can...Um. Discuss the details later but for now I need to think about how I’m going to inform her in the first place. It’s going to require a... _finesse_ that I don’t exactly have.”

“I know someone who can help with that,” Leliana volunteers. “Let me introduce you later. She’s probably had a small fit that I haven’t done it already.” Cullen internalizes his amusement at the truth of that statement, knowing Josephine. Leliana's words spark an idea, however, and he turns to the King.

“Speaking of introductions, your Majesty,” he says, and only briefly hesitates before continuing, “…Elissa. I believe the people of Haven would benefit from seeing you awake. Those who saw you alive spread rumors but...it’s nothing compared to the real thing.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “Morale is quite low, after all the losses we suffered, but—But I believe it will help more than just the Inquisition if you could step out, and let people know that you’re...back.” Maker, if he could sound more like a stuttering recruit.

“Ooh. Good idea, but you’re going to hate it,” Alistair says, turning to Elissa.

She makes a face, but eventually shrugs. “It’s got to happen eventually, I can’t stay inside forever. And if it helps, I don’t see why not. Besides...I want to see this Breach everyone’s talking about.”

“It’s...incredibly disturbing,” Cullen admits, and blinks when Aidah makes another noise of amusement at his side. He’s not used to people laughing when he’s honest. It’s...odd, and he fights the strange heat that flares beneath his cheeks.

"Sounds like it,” the Warden says, bemused, and inclines her head. “Well. No point wasting time. Lead the way, Cullen.”

 _Now?_ he almost says, but buries it through force of will. "Yes, ser,” he says immediately, and feels the same twisting awkwardness when it’s Elissa this time who laughs at him.

“Ser,” she says, shaking her head. “ _Elissa,_ Cullen. Please. I have a feeling the people willing to call me by my first name has dwindled a bit in the past decade or so.”

“You’re...not wrong,” he concedes, and tilts his head. Calling her by her first name will be...uncomfortable, especially considering her rank, but if she insists... “Very well. This way, Elissa. Don’t be surprised if a crowd gathers. Especially if His Majesty will be at your side.”

“Oh, he will be,” Alistair says brightly. “I’m not going to miss this.”

Cullen feels the enormity of what he’s about to do settle in his bones, and tries not to show it. _Right._ He’s to introduce the deceased Hero of Ferelden and the king of the nation himself to the exhausted, wounded people of Haven, practically as a couple, _and_ announce the formation of a new Inquisition to save the entire country from ruin. 

_Maker’s breath, why didn’t they teach us speechcraft in templar training?_

“I’ll come with you,” Aidah says at his side. “I need to speak with Solas more about this...connection.”

“Wonderful, now we’ve an entire crew. A king, a resurrected Hero, a Herald, and the general of a new Inquisition,” Alistair says. “They’re all going to throw a tizzy.” 

I’m _going to throw a tizzy,_ Cullen thinks dazedly. General of the new Inquisition. It’s a title that makes his head spin.

But this is what he signed up for. A purpose he _needed,_ and now _they_ need every able man and woman to take up arms. He knows no other way to atone, and no other path to take for himself. No other way to serve.

General it is. He prays he will be good enough. Strong enough.

_Without lyrium._

“Very well,” he says quietly. “To the people, then.” _Maker help us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoo, and we're on the fast track to the Hinterlands already! i love writing this and hope I have a good voice for Cullen. note! alternating point of views can bring about ~unreliable narration~. For example, in this chap, Cullen thinks his lowest point is Kinloch, doesn't label himself as particularly religious (in comparison to his peers); however, we ALL know his low point a moral one, because he was an oppressive shit in Kirkwall, and we also know he's pretty devout (not just because of his Templar training).
> 
> Cullen's a complicated character. Indoctrinated by the age of thirteen, crushing on Amell, tortured to breaking before his twenties, losing almost all empathy for mages. He can't go from "mages can't be treated like people" to Disney prince just because he turned against Meredith in the end; he needs to earn his absolution and pay back for the suffering he allowed in the Kirkwall Circle.
> 
> also, just in case this needs to be said: _**fuck greg ellis, fuck transphobia, recast cullen #2020 :)**_
> 
> I'm still sussing out Aidah and really want to explore an Inquisitor that is Dalish and not immediately psyched about having to help out this crazy human group fight other crazy humans, so we'll see how that shakes out in future chapters!
> 
> hope you guys like the story so far! happy new year!


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition is introduced to Haven, and the Warden makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone, hope your 2020 is treating you well enough! thanks so much for all the lovely comments and kudoses, I'm glad you like the story so far <3
> 
> Spoilers for DA comics in this chap!

**chapter five**

Varric wakes in his tent to the sound of steel-plated boots marching across the earth. Because his mother didn’t raise a fool—or really, teach him anything but self-preservation—he waits until the lurch passes by to peek out of his tent flaps, squinting through the low violet dusk.

 _Well, slap my ass and call me a Paragon._ He’d recognize _that_ bronze Mabari coat-of-arms anywhere. He knew that Alistair would show up eventually, but hell if he mustn’tve ruined some good horseshoes getting here as quick as he did. Last he’d heard, the King was still in Redcliffe. Nightingale’s ravens were faster than he’d given them credit for.

He leans back inside the warmth of his dark tent with a grunt, folding his chilly legs together. His knees ache in the cold and the early morning frost has crept in the edges of his trusty tent; he can’t feel his toes through his wool socks. _Might as well get dressed and into some damn layers,_ he thinks tiredly, because the ball sure is rolling now. Smart for His Majesty to sneak in with a small royal guard this damn early, or there would have been a clusterfuck of starry-eyed villagers blocking the way to the Chantry Hall for a good mile. Knowing what—or rather, _who_ was sleeping inside it probably would have led to some trampled Haven folk, if word of the Hero’s resurrection had reached Alistair’s ears already. 

Speaking of which. Of all the things that he expected would happen after the Seeker clapped his ass in steel and dragged him to Haven, _this_ hadn’t even been on the list. Ten years as best friend to the most danger-prone warrior in all of Thedas could not have prepared him for the fuckbucket of crazy shit that had been the Conclave, the Rift, and the return of the Warden.

Andraste’s ass, he could still hardly believe it and he’d seen the woman fall through the Rift himself. Seen her _pulled_ through, his mind corrects, and to be honest, that's almost worse. If he’s honest with himself—which he rarely is—the idea that some mysterious mage has the ability to _resurrect people from the dead_ with the flick of the wrist scares him shitless. One would think he’d get used to having everything he knew about the world flipped upside down and set on fire, but at this rate, it looks like he isn’t going to have a normal day ever again.

Sighing heavily, he stares at his cross-legged feet in the dim light of his tent. He feels...exhausted. Being imprisoned, interrogated, set free but on a leash, and nearly blown up took its toll on a dwarf, but all of that was old hat with all this...magic shit, all this death and people _not_ being dead when they oughtta be. He’s too old for this crap. He doesn't want to be surprised anymore, pretty soon his chest hair will start turning grey.

 _Screw it,_ he thinks, and crawls to bury himself back into his warm bedroll. _The end of the world can wait a few hours._

He’s out in a matter of seconds.

* * *

Not long must pass before he’s awoken by a new sound, louder and more clamorous than before. He grumps and huffs and shimmies his way out of the tent to see a crowd forming around the Chantry hall. Any writer worth his salt would recognize a cue like that when they saw one, so he swiftly tugs on his boots and crunches through fresh snow with his ears perked.

“Did you hear?” one whispers. “The King! King frickin’ Alistair himself!”

“What’s he doing here? Here to simper over our dead?”

“Shut up! Maker’s sakes, you’ll be drawn and quartered!”

“King Alistair cares for his people,” a woman snaps, swatting the back of another’s head. “Mind your tongue before I wash your mouth out.”

“Obviously he’s here for the _Warden,_ ” the first says, breathless and eager. The small group of soldiers and civilians around him all wear the same expression as they turn towards the Chantry doors. Varric recognizes it from the thousands of times he’s told stories around a campfire, and feels the same anticipation stir quietly within his own chest.

It’s been a while since he last saw the King of Ferelden, but they’d parted as friends. He’ll never put the time they’d shared in Rivain or Tevinter to paper—people would think he’d lost his mind, quite an achievement as an author in _this_ nugshit world. Worse, he’d have to lie his ass off about almost all of it: though _that_ wasn’t a foreign concept. He’d made a (wise, in his opinion) habit of avoiding plotlines that in any part referenced his personal life. Hard to do that with an adventure that dumped his ass in the Fade, of all Maker-forsaken places.

The excited rumbling lifts to shouts as the Chantry door opens, and out walks Curly, the Herald (has a much better ring to it than _murderer_ , that's for sure) and King Alistair himself. 

And at his side is a blonde human woman, wearing armor that’s seen better days and an expression like a soldier heading off to war. It’s not a far off-description as immediately, the crowd begins to holler and scream in sudden, sweeping cries of what sounds like victory. _And the crowd goes wild,_ Varric thinks, shaking his head. Hightown, a Chantry hall, a battleground: it’s always the same song, when there’s a reluctant hero involved, and in times of trouble, that song seems to catch like the worst kind of cold.

Not that he can blame any of them. The story of the Warden and Alistair is better than any he could have written, and he does so love epics that end in tragedy.

He watches Alistair lift a hand, a king practiced at quieting crowds, and as though enchanted, the people all hush like obedient mice, breathless and watchful. He swallows a smile as the king takes a moment, turning to grin at the woman at his side, and at his right, a soldier sighs longingly. Yeah. Only thing better than an epic is a romance, all the more if that romance is...well. Epic.

Alistair looks ten years younger. The man his friend had been on their quest together seems like a shadowy facsimile of the King that stands before them. For a moment, he can just imagine the man Alistair used to be, the one sung about in ballads: a young, fresh-faced Grey Warden, bastard by blood, on the road to fight the Blight and end a traitor, head over heels for his beautiful, noble commander. It all makes his fingers itch for a quill something _fierce._

“Good people of Haven!” Alistair says, lifting his voice despite the crowd’s anticipating silence. “The kingdom of Ferelden grieves with you. Your country offers its deepest sympathy for the losses you have suffered here. Aid will be summoned and your dead will be honored, on my word as your king. Her Most Holy will be lain to rest in time with the ceremony and respect she is due.”

The brightness on his face fades, dimmed with the gravity of next words. “Until then, however, I must ask you all to remain as strong and resilient as you have been, in the face of so much tragedy, loss, and fear. Have faith that your leaders have done their utmost to restore safety and order.” He lifts his chin, eyes flashing. “As of today, The Crown has granted authority to restore the Inquisition of old under the Divine’s holy order, in effort to bring about an end to this chaos and continue the peace talks she worked so hard to oversee.”

Murmurs break out in the crowd, and Varric shifts in his boots. So Cassandra finally got the gears turning. He hadn’t realized she’d scored Alistair’s backing as well. _Probably Nightingale’s doing. The Seeker needs to work on her charm._

“This Inquisition will be led by Her Holiness’s Left and Right Hand, its forces overseen by Commander Rutherford.” Alistair extends a hand, gesturing to Curly, whose shoulders stiffen at the words as he goes to rigid attention. Clearly, the spotlight is not the ex-knight commander’s favorite place to be. Varric smirks as the new Commander dips his head sharply in deference to the King and the people watching.

Alistair clears his throat, and waits a moment before continuing, his ginger brow knitted as though summoning his words. He lifts his head, meeting the crowd. “No doubt many of you have heard whispers of what happened at the Conclave. Rumors, stories. The Inquisition and the Crown shall not rest until those responsible for the deaths at the Temple are answered for. However, we owe you the truth as we understand it.”

Varric can’t help but lift an eyebrow. Promising people the truth is a bold tactic. Infrequently offered, rarely genuine. Even then, people are never satisfied with the truth when they get it. However, Alistair’s reputation might just be enough to save him from an angry crowd, and his allergies when it comes to diplomatic bullshit might just win them over enough to give him their ears.

Judging by the spell of anticipating silence cast across the villagers, the truth might just be the right call. _Go figure._

“At the Conclave, enemies to the peace talk and the Divine opened the Breach above us. They tore into the Fade with magic we do not yet understand. But a single survivor of that explosion was granted the ability to close Fade rifts, and successfully closed the first rift at the base of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

Alistair turns, and gestures to the quiet, curly-haired elf at his side. She looks like a startled doe, ready to flee from the attention upon her, but Varric watches as she visibly grows a spine under king’s eyes and turns to the people.

“Good people,” the elf says, her voice low but clear. She steps forward and even from this distance, Varric can see her strange grey-green eyes. “My name is Aidah, of Dalish clan Lavellan. What His Majesty says is true. I have, through some strange magic, gained the ability to close the rifts.”

She lifts a dark hand, and with a theatrical crackle Varric can’t help but appreciate, it flares to glowing green life. Around him, the villagers burst into frantic whispering. 

“See? I told ya!” one man hisses, and Varric catches familiar words thrown across the muffled din. _The Herald. Andraste. Chosen._

Big words. Bigger meanings. His hand _cramps_ for some parchment.

“I do not know how I received these powers,” Aidah continues. “But together with the Inquisition, I will do my all to close the Breach for good.”

The whispers boil over, louder and more incredulous, and Varric tenses with memories of mobs under his skin before recognizing the awe in their voices. _Close the Breach for good._ And said with such damn confidence, too. Hell if he isn’t as relieved and awestruck as the rest of them. 

He lifts his head, craning his neck unbidden to watch the Breach swirl slowly in the sky, glowing through storm clouds, defying everything known about the world. His stomach lurches in his chest.

_Wherever you are, Hawke...stay there._

“Thank you,” Alistair says, dipping his head. His crown glints impressively in the morning sunlight. It suits him, Varric thinks, but not better than the smile that creeps across his face as he turns next to the Warden, silent and waiting, at his side.

“Good people. If you would allow me to address one more rumor.” His smile stretches wider, fully beaming now, and Varric swears he can hear swooning among the ranks. “The closing of the first Rift by Lady Lavellan, through stroke of fate or magic I cannot say, has returned to our world one who many of you may know by name and by deed. I cannot explain how, but I can only offer thanks to Andraste herself for the return of such a hero.”

Alistair reaches out a hand, only slightly pink-cheeked, brown eyes shining with mirth. The people watch hungrily, starry-eyed, as the woman offers a small, genuine smile, and takes it.

“Good people,” Alistair says, voice brimming over with joy. “It is my honor to give you Warden-Commander Elissa Cousland, Hero of Ferelden.”

There’s a frozen moment, a silent shard of time caught between hysteria and ecstasy, and Varric isn’t sure what will happen next. Applause? Pitchforks and screams of fear over blood magic?

Instead, the people are quiet, speechless despite the rumors and the whispers and the very woman standing alive in front of them, and a single person steps forward from the crowd.

It’s a soldier, judging from his garb. Young, but old enough to have stubble prickling at his face. His red hair is long, pinned back in a messy bun, and his face is smudged with dirt. His armor is worn and nicked from battle.

“...My lady,” he says. His voice is hoarse but made of iron. “My name is Bell. Bell Ivirnass. Ten years ago, I lost my family to the Blight. We fled the darkspawn to Lothering, lost my father along the way. My mother...I lost to wolves, in the forest outside the village. I would have died myself...had someone not stopped in their tracks to help a lost little boy, crying for his mother.” The man swallows, and Varric watches as both Alistair and the Warden stare at him in amazed recognition.

“That was you?” the Warden says, speaking for the first time. Her accent is Ferelden nobility all over, but her voice soft and gentler than Varric had imagined it. Like powdery ash. The people gathered around all visibly tremor as her innocent words, riveted.

“It was indeed, my lady,” the soldier says. His mouth twitches in a faint smile. “I never got the chance to thank you—or you, your Majesty—for bringing me to the Chantry. The Revered Mother took me with her, when the darkspawn came to Lothering. If you had not brought me to her...I would certainly have perished, with so many others who did not survive.” He straightens, shoulders proud. “I owe you my life, my lady...many of us do.”

 _We all do_ is not said, but it is heard. Varric watches, eyebrows high, as the man kneels on one knee and bows his head. The Warden stares, face open and surprised, and beside her, the King is staring in turn at her, looking totally besotted. _Looks like Moody isn’t a fitting nickname anymore,_ Varric thinks with amusement. _Heart-eyes might do, though._

“My lady,” the soldier Bell says from the Warden’s feet. “You have my thanks, my fealty, and my life debt, if you should wish it.”

Varric watches the Warden blink at ‘fealty’ and open her mouth at ‘life debt’, but before she can say a word, all at once, the people of Haven begin to sink to one knee. She watches, clearly stunned, as the villagers all move to their knees. Not one to stand out, Varric joins the moment and bends himself, right knee sinking into the cold snow. 

“My lady, my lady,” the people whisper, in river currents of reverence.

The Warden looks bowled over, eyes moving in mild panic to Alistair, and Varric watches him squeeze their conjoined hands. A moment, and what might have been a wink or flash of sunlight, and the King himself drops her hand to sink to one knee in the snow. Behind him, Curly and even Lavellan follow suit. The Warden stands alone among the silent, grateful citizens of Ferelden, staring down with glimmering eyes at the King at her feet, and _Maker’s tears,_ where is a quill when a dwarf needs one?

The storybook moment ends, and the King returns to his feet. He takes the Warden’s hand once more, and turns to the people.

“In fear, there is strength,” the king says. He lifts his free hand, and Varric rises with the others in wordless compliance. “In loss, there is unity. In darkness, there is light. And when all things seem lost, miracles _do_ come.” He turns his chin, eyes locking briefly with the Warden, and turns his chin to the crowd. “Join us, people of Haven, and together, with the Hero and the Inquisition, we shall rebuild.”

The applause Varric has been waiting for finally comes, with cheers, whistling, and even tears. Varric finds his own hands clapping together, for the show and even for the real message within Alistair’s words. For a guy who once ran away from his kingdom on some quest with a pirate and a pulp fiction author, he thinks, Alistair _is_ pretty good at being a righteous leader. But then, he’d known that from the moment Alistair had given himself as ransom to save his and Rivani’s sorry hides, because every decent hero has a special helping of stupid mixed in with all the good bits. Hawke, bless him, has an extra dash or two.

The applause eventually fades and the crowd lingers until Curly finally speaks up and steps forward. “To work, men,” he says, lifting his voice firmly. “There is much to do, and much to rebuild.”

“Yes, sir!” A small chorus meets him and those under his command break off from the mass of gawking village folk, and realizing the speeches are over, they also disperse to gossip and gush in private. Varric fights a smirk, knowing he’ll likely join in, add some details, and stoke the fires for morale later. Least he could do, after all.

But first, he wants to meet a Hero.

He starts forward, only to stop and curse quietly when he sees the Seeker emerge from the Chantry hall and engage the King in conversation. He still isn’t sure if Cassandra will throw him in irons again now that the fighting’s over and Hawke is still in the wind, and he has no desire to tempt fate by wandering in front of her cutting gaze, but then a marvelous, wonderful thought strikes him, and he remembers that opportunity always knocks when you play with a little risk.

He feels a shit-eating grin cross his face, and he strides towards the King and the Warden with all the swagger he can muster. It comes naturally, of course, but certain moments call for a little flair.

Cassandra, suspicious woman that she is, spots him first. Her stormy eyes narrow upon him like he’s a familiar insect she hasn’t yet managed to squash, her noble visage wrinkling like it's caught a foul stench. She opens her mouth, no doubt to threaten him with some long stabby thing or another, when Alistair’s gaze finds him next.

“Varric?” Alistair says, surprised. Varric finds a real smile work across his face as the King’s mouth stretches into a delighted grin, and buries a belly laugh at the way Cassandra’s eyebrows shoot up in shock when the King says his name.

“Varric!” Alistair says again, marching forward. He finds himself grunting as the king’s massive arms throw around him. _Right,_ he remembers, as his ribs are squeezed near to fracturing, _Alistair’s a hugger,_ and barely remembers to sneer over the King’s shoulder directly at Cassandra’s horrified face. Her expression goes black with buried rage and he lets himself laugh hoarsely in the King’s ear, clapping his back in hello and pleading for release in the same gesture.

“It’s been a long time, o King,” he says, and quickly sucks in oxygen when Alistair releases him.

“Not too long, has it?” Alistair says. “But this week’s been honestly such a nightmare, time has lost all meaning to me.”

“Fair point,” Varric says. “But it’s not been _all_ bad, I see.” He tips his head towards the Warden, who is watching the both of them curiously, and Varric feels a tiny little piece of himself hum, a little starstruck under her gaze.

“No,” Alistair agrees, looking back. His handsome face goes horribly soft, and Varric would snort out loud if it wasn’t so endearing. “No, not all bad. My friend—” Alistair bends back up to his full height. “I would like to introduce you to someone.”

The Warden steps forward, joining Alistair at his side and smiling quietly at him. Her long, loose hair is messy and shiny, like gilded straw, and her nose is crooked from an old, healed break. Her lips are thin, an eyebrow is scarred, and her figure is well-built, with a warrior’s musculature. She doesn’t look like a noble princess or storybook maiden, but she is lovely, and standing next to Alistair, she fits, like a puzzle piece he’d only seen the missing outline of in Alistair, months ago. Now, the king is complete with her standing at his hip, and damn if Varric doesn’t feel a little fuzzy inside on their behalf.

“Hello,” the Warden says to him, her ashen voice somewhat at odds to her title and the remarkable size of her biceps, and he returns her friendly smile with sincerity. “My name is Elissa Cousland.”

She extends a hand, and he takes it in a firm shake. Her grip is calloused and strong, but around his, her hand is small. He has no trouble imagining her with a sword, though; Aveline had the tiniest, toughest hands and she still swung hers around with the best of them.

“Varric Tethras,” he says. “Sorry if I’m a little starstruck. It’s not every day you meet a resurrected Grey Warden war hero. Hell, even saying that makes me a little dizzy.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” she says, lip quirking. “If you don’t mind me saying, that’s probably a good thing.”

He chuckles, releasing her hand. “You’re probably right. Still, the honor’s all mine, Warden-Commander.”

“Please, call me Elissa,” she says. “I’m not a big fan of titles...and any friend of Alistair’s is a friend of mine.” Beside her, Alistair puffs out his chest a bit. Varric smiles at her, even as his heart pangs. Hell. He misses Hawke.

“Not a fan of ‘hero’, huh? Well, I won’t complain about being on first-name basis with the person who saved the entire world. I can barely remember to call Alistair by his proper title, anyways.”

“Which I actually don’t mind at all,” Alistair chimes in. “Save my life, and you can call me whatever you want. Not that you’d wait for my permission.” He makes a face. “Still don't really love ' _Moody_ ’, though, Varric.”

“Then you shouldn’t have moped for half the voyage to Tevinter,” Varric replies, and ignores how Alistair scowls like a teased puppy. “But tell you what, I’ll _consider_ a change. Don't really like swapping once I sink my teeth in, but little changes sometimes stand in for the bigger ones.” He looks meaningfully up at Elissa, and Alistair looks a little dopey. 

“Right,” he says, and Varric smirks.

“So you saved Alistair’s life, then?” Elissa asks. Varric tries not to grin widely when Cassandra double-takes from where she’s eavesdropping a few feet away.

“Well, I suppose if we’re being honest, he saved mine first,” Varric says smoothly, leaning back on his heels. “Nearly got himself killed doing it too, so I you could say I owed him.”

“The balance is in his favor, I’d say,” Alistair says, looking down at him with a sheepish smile. Varric shrugs. He doesn’t keep score. Not with friends, anyway.

“Sounds like a story I’d like to hear,” Elissa says. Her thick eyebrows knit together, hazel eyes spark with sudden realization. “Wait a moment. Varric Tethras. That name’s...familiar to me.” She peers down at him. “...I don’t suppose you _write,_ Varric?”

Varric blinks, a slow smile crossing his face. “...A little bit, in my spare time,” he ventures, preening at the idea that even the Hero of Ferelden has read his stuff, before he stops short. “Wait a second. _You’ve_ heard of _me?”_ Unless she’d woke up in the Chantry with a copy of the _Tale of the Champion_ in her lap, he can’t imagine how—

“My family...we had a rather large library in Highever,” Elissa says, with only the lightest melancholy tugging at her mouth. “My father, he loved to read, he sent for books to be collected from all over Ferelden. My brother, he—he really liked your Kirkwall serial, about the Coterie, and I...” A faint blush crosses her cheeks. “I quite liked your novel _The Dasher’s Men._ I read it at least three times.”

Varric gapes at her. “You _read_ that? That was my first publication! Nobody’s read that! And you _liked it?_ ”

Elissa nods, smiling, and Varric shakes his head in disbelief. His agent had told him nobody liked stories with dwarf heroes, and he’d never written another like that first novel. And to think Elissa damned Cousland had only read _that_ book by him, and she _liked_ it. 

“Well,” he says, a little taken aback. “I’m...incredibly flattered. I’d happily sign a cover for you, but I don’t think a single person alive has a decent copy of that old thing. They were probably all used for kindling.”

“Why? It was good!” Elissa protests. “I liked the lead, he was clever and friendly and had a sense of humor, I like that in my heroes. All of my friends preferred the broody heroes, but I always liked the ones who could handle a joke.” A faint blush blooms in her cheeks, and beside her, Alistair lifts his eyebrows. Amusingly, his expression slowly changes into something Varric could only describe as enormously pleased with himself.

“You’re in the minority, I’m afraid,” Varric says truthfully, as his gaze returns to Elissa. He scoffs. “ _Dasher’s Men._ Hell, I haven’t written anything with a dwarf hero since then and my publisher has thanked me for it ever since.”

“I quite like stories where the leads aren’t human,” Elissa says, and clears her throat. “I...that is, it always seemed more interesting, simply because I’m not, and there are already so many stories about heroic, tragic men...yours had dwarves and action and some raunchy humor.” She chuckles. “It was unique. Funny and interesting. Especially for a sheltered noble-born girl who’d never set foot in a place like Kirkwall.”

“I’m sliding from flattered to bashful,” Varric says. “Keep at it and you’ll have me blushing like a Chantry sister.”

“And that’s no easy feat,” Alistair says, amused, and he moves a casual hand around Elissa’s waist. Varric resists the urge to lift any eyebrow. Last he checked, Ferelden also had a Queen. Hmph. Friend or not, Alistair can handle that on his own. Royal shit is always the worst drama. “Varric’s about as shameless as they come.”

“You have me confused with Rivaini,” Varric says, waving a hand. “I’m purer than Andraste’s bosom in comparison.”

“We’re all akin to Andraste’s bosom against Isabella,” Alistair agrees, looking fond, and Varric chuckles.

“Another story I think I’d like to hear,” Elissa says, looking at Alistair with a strange, wistful look on her face, and Varric thinks, _hell._ It can’t be easy, to wake up one day ten years after dying. It must be even harder to see that life went on without you.

“I’d be happy to fill you in,” he says. “But maybe at a later time. Somebody wants your attention, I think,” he says, and gestures behind them. There, Cassandra and Cullen are standing together in stiff soldierly conference, clearly waiting on the king, and Alistair nods.

“Take it you’re staying?” he says then. “At least long enough to tell me how you ended up here, of all places?”

From afar, Cassandra looks briefly shifty-eyed, and Varric grins. “My tent is just over there,” he says, jerking back a thumb. “I’ll be around. See you later, Heart-eyes.” He bows formally to Elissa. “Elissa. I’ll have to work on one for you.”

“Heart-eyes?” Alistair echoes, indignant, and Elissa throws back her head in a sudden laugh. It’s a good laugh, loud and a little raspy.

“I love it,” Elissa says, beaming. Her smile turns mischievous, and he finds that he genuinely _likes_ her. Turns out, meeting your heroes isn't always a letdown. "For myself, I don’t suppose ‘Your First Fan’ is taken?”

“Keep on like that and you’ll earn something like ‘Sweet Talker’,” Varric says with a wink, and makes his leave with the memory of her surrounded by village folk like the second coming of Andraste herself lingering in his mind. Crazy shit. All this shit is weird, crazy, and practically made for print.

He needs his quill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric is...my favorite character in all of Dragon Age, so naturally writing him terrifies me. It's the clever ones that are the hardest, and he is very clever. so hard to get his voice!
> 
> this chapter's a bit short because the next is, finally, from Elissa's perspective, and it'll be longggg because she has so much to process. thanks so much for reading!


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elissa's first day awake, in a strange new time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for all the lovely comments!! you guys make my day.
> 
> cw: depiction of a panic attack

**chapter six**

She’s been staring at him all day.

He’s been her fixture, since she woke in that room with him hovering above her. When they are not touching directly—his hand seeks her waist, her arm, her wrist whenever they are apart for long, and without much conscious thought it seems—he still circles around her, an anxious celestial body caught in her orbit. She’s glad of how he lingers. Relieved that every time she begins to question what’s around her, wonder what’s real, he’s immediately at her side, the warmth of his touching grounding on this strange, familiar earth. In this strange and _unfamiliar_ time.

He’s the only thing she knows and trusts here. But even he’s not the same. It’s why she stares at him, not just clinging to his side like a child, but also gawking at him whenever he’s not looking. Unconsciously, her eyes trace the fine lines that now carve around the edges of his mouth, the small valleys worn between his ginger eyebrows that weren’t there before. She stares transfixed when he talks, because even when he’s joking there’s a steady confidence in his voice that hadn't been there before.

She stares at him when he speaks of his people—his subjects—with duty and with pride. The Alistair she knew was horrified by leadership, felt nauseated at the very idea of being king. But the one before her now—the one that's touching her, haunting her footsteps like she’ll disappear if she wanders too far from his reach—this Alistair _fits._ The shining crown around his head, foreign as it may be, sits in his hair like it belongs there. His clothes are graceful, polished royal armor that make his old splintmail look like scrap. People speak to him with awe and respect, and he does not brush their fealty aside or avoid their eyes like a wary boy. This Alistair may still laugh and jest, but he _commands_ rooms, now, instead of trying to hide within in them.

And in front of the Chantry hall. Speaking to the villagers. She has never seen him like that. So... _strong,_ or well-spoken. His confidence shook her, and his words of support for the villagers had been...stirring. Wise. Powerful. He'd reminded her of Duncan. Of her father. Of a leader. She'd always known he was capable, but she'd never seen him embrace anything close to what she'd seen him just display within himself. Her Alistair had been too afraid of standing out, being noticed, wary in his bones of being awarded responsibility and failing to meet expectations.

He's so different. Not enough that she doesn’t recognize him, that she could ever lean away from his touch or attention, but different enough that she can’t stop catching herself mid-moment at the sight of him, at the sound of him speaking, and she—she is—

She’s panicking.

She’s been burying it, but she's panicking.

All those people. Kneeling at her feet. That little boy from Lothering, grown up a soldier with stubble and scars on his face. 

Leliana looks at her like a ghost. She’s quieter and older and her dark-circled eyes have so much doubt in them. Her Leliana could be grave but never hid her spark. This Leliana is the Right Hand of the Divine. A spymaster to the most holy woman in Thedas _._

And the _sky._

It’s like a monstrous titan has punched a hole in the atmosphere and the heavens are bleeding. Bleeding unholy, glowing green, and it spins so slowly she feels like she’s going to fall upwards right into it, just like the dwarves in Orzammar fear.

“Elissa?”

Fingers interlock with hers. Gently squeeze. At least his hands feel the same, she thinks, wrapped around her own.

She sucks in a breath and drags her gaze from the broadtable’s detailed engravings up into warm brown eyes. New, concerned lines, baby crow’s feet, whisper at their corners, but the _way_ he looks at her ( _Maker, but you’re beautiful,_ he’d whisper, and she’d look into his eyes and believe him) is the same as yesterday.

But yesterday, apparently, is a long, long time ago.

“I’m fine,” she says quietly. It’s a lie, but an unavoidable one. There’s really no way she _could_ be fine, but she’s gotten quite good at keeping calm, even when things are literally burning down around her. Alistair, bless him, seems to know better, and his eyebrows knit together with concern. He still manages to look like a puppy, even if he is ten years older than he was last time she saw him. Her heart apparently doesn't know the difference, and something gushes in her chest like water from a spring just looking at him. That is one thing she can rely on. She doubts her love for him could ever change, in ten years or one hundred. 

She swipes a reassuring thumb across his knuckles. _I'm alright._ “What’s next?”

They’re finally alone after hours of planning, standing in the meeting room. Cassandra has gone to fetch someone, a Lady Montilyet, and Leliana is off sending more ravens. Cullen left to begin posting enlistment posters across the village, and Aidah has disappeared not long before he left, apparently to question the local elf apostate more about the Mark on her hand. The Chantry hall feels so quiet, after so much talking, and her brain feels like pudding.

“Cassandra suggested we start planning our approach with the remaining Chantry with their diplomat but...” Alistair trails off, shifting his jaw. “I’m thinking you need a break.”

She blinks at him, and honestly, she would kiss him if she weren’t worried the others could walk in. But, time and place and all that. She’s in love with a king, now. 

“...I think we all need one,” she says eventually, gently sidestepping the suggestion. “But I don’t think Leliana or Cassandra will be taking one any time soon, and there’s sort of a...you know.” She points a finger upwards at the ceiling. “A situation to be dealt with.”

“A situation that no one actually has an immediate solution to,” Alistair replies. “And diplomacy can wait until tomorrow. I’m exhausted too, you know. We’ve been planning and _talking_ all day and I gave a _pretty_ good speech, I don’t know if you noticed, and I sort of had the biggest shock of my entire life a few hours ago and also—this is a big one—I’m _King,_ and when I say ‘break time’, people actually listen and we get breaks!” 

Halfway through his rambling she started grinning, and by the end she’s pressed close to him despite herself. His voice softens as his neck cranes down to look at her, a hand lifting to gently tuck a stray hair behind her ear. “That and Leliana and Cassandra weren’t resurrected this week...that I know of. So come on. Let’s take a break, we’ve earned it.”

“Oh, a _shared_ break, I see,” she teases.

“Madwoman,” he says. “I want to _sit down._ ”

“Next to me?” she asks, fluttering her eyelashes, and he loops an arm around hers.

“Only you could make sitting sound naughty,” he says, sighing theatrically, and she clucks her tongue as they start walking. She doesn’t know exactly where they’re going, but Alistair seems to have somewhere in mind.

“Lies and slander,” she replies. “You’ve the dirty mind, not me. I’m just talking about sitting.”

“It’s the tone, it’s all in the tone—”

“Your Majesty,” a voice says, and they turn together to see Cassandra coming in just as they’re nearly out the door, and for her part, she looks at least a little regretful to belay them. At her side is a rather striking woman wearing an even more striking ruffled gold and indigo dress. 

“We were just...sneaking off,” Alistair says plainly. Elissa withholds a sigh, but the corner of her mouth twitches regardless. Cassandra makes a face, her black brows coming together, and the woman beside her steps forward.

“Your Majesty,” the stranger says, and bows with enough grace that Elissa feels like she’s back in ladies’ training again. Her accent is Antivan, thick and crisp, and her skin is lovely, nut brown and flawless. A noblewoman, then, not a soldier. “It is a pleasure and privilege to make your acquaintance. My name is Josephine Montilyet.”

“Well met, Lady Montilyet,” Alistair says, and her dark head lifts slowly in deference. Elissa tries not to stare. People have been bowing to Alistair all morning, and she keeps catching herself questioning why before, suddenly, remembering. “I am pleased to meet you. This is—”

Josephine is already bowing again, this time to her, and it’s even stranger than her bow to Alistair. 

“You must be the chief ambassador,” she says, eager to move on. Now that Alistair has thrown the possibility of a break before her, she feels suddenly quite pressed to have it. “Good to meet you, Lady Montilyet. My name is Elissa.”

“It’s an honor, Warden-Commander,” Josephine says, somewhat breathlessly, before swiftly regaining her composure. “Your deeds are well known across Thedas, even in Antiva. I am...so very glad to see you awake. And your presence will be incredibly helpful, with the situation at hand.”

“It will?” she asks blankly, and Alistair echoes her almost in tandem.

“But of course,” Josephine responds. “You’re a legend and we are in crisis. People will flock here with support, even if just to catch a glimpse of you.”

Elissa blinks rapidly. “Oh.” Despite herself, discomfort turns her voice pitchy. She sees Alistair wince out of the corner of her eye.

“Lady Montilyet,” he cuts in. “I know there’s probably a mountain of things we need to address, but it has been a very long, weird, overwhelming day and Elissa and I...need to take a moment or two. To ourselves. Alone.” Elissa coughs on a laugh and Alistair’s ears pinken under his crown.

“Ah,” Josephine chirps, clearing her throat. “I understand completely, your Majesty. Warden-Commander.” She bows again, effortlessly regal. “Perhaps we can set to task tomorrow morning. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing the two of you rooms in the inner chambers of the hall.” _Rooms, as in plural?_

“We won’t take up more space than we need,” she says, frowning. “I understand the wounded are many, I’m sure others need shelter from the cold more than we do. _And Alistair and I won’t be sleeping separately,_ she thinks, but the thought brings her up short.

Alistair is married. Her stomach turns to stone. What would that look like, if they bunked together? Would she go to hero to whore overnight? What would people say of _Alistair?_

“His Majesty can’t sleep _outside,”_ Josephine says, mildly scandalized.

“His Majesty certainly can,” Alistair pipes up. “Elissa and I slept in tents for an entire year before I became king, and I’ll have you know I have a _very_ fancy tent on my steed. Please, Lady Ambassador, any space within the Chantry can be reserved for those who actually need it.”

“I—” Josephine’s pretty brow wrinkles, clearly disapproving, before it smooths as if it never were. She nods her head in modest acquiescence. “Of course, your Majesty. Our soldiers will appreciate your generosity. I will speak with your men and arrange space for your tent posting, with room for your personal guard.” She sweeps downwards, a third time. “Until tomorrow, your Majesty.” She and Cassandra both turn on a heel, leaving them alone, and Alistair’s hand weaves itself back around hers.

“Thank the Maker. Let’s go before anyone else comes back.”

“Go where?” 

“Well, I was going to suggest the room with the cot from earlier, but now that they’re preparing my tent, we have some time to kill.” He lifts an eyebrow at her. “Lis, when’s the last time you ate?”

Elissa blinks. “Um....before the fight with the archdemon? Spot of bread and some of Oghren’s fire ale for courage.”

Alistair looks revolted. “Maker above, you _drank_ some of that? Lucky you still have eyebrows.” He shakes his head. “There’s got to be better than that around here. You must be starving, ten years is a long time to go between meals.”

She snorts and acknowledges the point, and at the mention of food, her stomach gurgles. “I’m...ravenous, actually, now that you mention it.”

“Excellent, I am too. Let’s go intimidate a village baker.”

She tosses her head back in a laugh, but finds herself hesitating at the door. She stares at their interlocked hands, gut twisting.

“What is it?” She looks up to see him frowning at her.

“It’s...Are we...” She drops his hand and wraps her arms around herself, and his frown deepens. “Ali. I don’t want people to...to think poorly of us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Of you and me.” He blinks at her, uncomprehending, and the edge of her mouth twitches. Some things never change. “Because you’re _married,_ Ali. To the Queen of Ferelden?”

Alistair makes a stupendous face, his face wrinkling. “Ah,” he says. “That. Well. It’s sort of...too late? Nug’s a bit out of the bag on that one.” At the expression that crosses her face, he cringes and lifts a hand. “I haven’t exactly been... _distant_ with you today, and the thing is...erhm. Most people already sort of... _know_ about us.”

“Most people...know,” Elissa echoes, confused. “What, that we’re together? Really?” She feels heat surge in her cheeks. “Wait, _most people?_ Who’s most people?”

Alistair scratches his head, shifting his crown a bit. “Err. The whole country? Maybe a few others?”

She gapes at him. “And how do they know that?”

“The same way everybody knows who you are and what we did in the Blight? I did mention the books and songs and plays?”

“ _We’re_ in them?” she asks, gobsmacked. “As a couple?”

“...People like their romance?” Alistair offers bashfully. “It just became…part of the story. That you were the Hero and I was the...secret royal in love with you and...” Red blazes across Alistair’s cheeks, traveling to his ears. “...that I married Anora out of duty because you were...gone?” He sighs. “I was always... _so_ annoyed that people just—used our lives and what we meant to each other as entertainment. You were a hero and you deserved to be celebrated and honored, but for the longest time people looked at me and just saw...” He swallows, gaze dancing away from hers. “Well. The heartbroken king, I suppose. The one whose lover died in a blaze of glory to save the world. The one that survived. All of that fun...stuff.”

Elissa’s eyes are stinging, and her throat feels thick. The embarrassment on Alistair’s face has transformed into something that strikes her like a blow. “Ali,” she says, and wordlessly steps towards him with arms out. Sighing heavily, he steps forward into her reach, allows himself to be folded into her embrace as his own arms move around her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s all she can offer.

“You’re here now,” he says, voice gruff. He clears his throat and she feels it rumble through his armor where her temple rests against his chest. “Missed your hugs, you know. Nobody wants to hug a king, they’re all too scared of me. I suppose I could always _order_ somebody, but people already think I’m strange. You there, squire! By order of your king, I demand a comforting embrace!”

Elissa giggles. “I think I would pay real coin to see that. But I’m happy to make up for lost time.” She gives him a squeeze, and he squawks a little.

“You and your muscly arms,” he manages, as she continues to giggle.

“They’re why my hugs are so good,” she informs him, a familiar line she’s said a hundred times before, and relaxes her grip.

“Maker be praised,” Alistair wheezes, just to tease her, and she leans back to slug him. He catches her half-hearted bop on his arm around the wrist, sliding his fingers upwards to take her hand.

“But to answer your question,” he says, a little more seriously. “Even if all of Thedas didn’t already know how hideously in love with you I am—” She could hear that a thousand times and still blush, “—that certainly wouldn’t stop me from holding your hand in public. I’ve waited a decade to touch you again and I have a quota to fill.”

“A _quota,_ ” she repeats, laughing, but her heart is warm and heavy in her chest. “But...alright. Holding hands is...fine. If everybody already knows, anyway. I was worried, earlier, when Josephine said she’d prepared separate rooms—”

“Yeah, _that’s_ not happening—”

“But...just because everybody knows doesn’t mean it’s alright.” Anxiety tugs in her chest, loose threads unspooling. “I...remember what they used to say about Cailan. And Anora. I don’t want them to say the same things about you.”

Alistair sighs again, sobering. “You’re...not wrong. Like usual.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think there’s much point in pretending we’re... _not_ together, but I suppose we can avoid flaunting it.” He makes another face. “I still haven’t written to Anora. No bloody idea what I’m going to say to her. ‘Hi, remember my old lover, the Hero of Ferelden? She’s been resurrected! Isn’t that brilliant? And I know you didn’t want us to get involved with the mage-templar business, but I’ve endorsed a new Inquisition and I’m going to try to stop the end of the world with the Hero and a weird elven mage, hope you can manage Denerim while I’m gone. Sincerely, your soon-to-be-former husband.”

“ _Former husband?_ ”

“I can hardly stay married to her now! You’re here!” He looks indignant at the suggestion, and she can’t quite help herself. Going up on her toes, she lifts a hand to his jaw and slides her lips across his in a chaste kiss. Immediately, his hands find her hips, dragging her up and close with an insistence that makes her heart flutter.

“How can a king become a _former_ husband to a queen?” she manages, pulling back when the kiss edges into something a little less innocent. Up close, she can see Alistair’s pupils are dilated, and she chides herself against the urge to take him by the hand and find that flimsy old cot. “Has that ever been _done?”_

“I should hope as King, I can make a new law if there isn’t one. Throw my considerable weight around. But...the truth is, I wouldn't be the first to bring it up. Anora and I...we haven't produced any heirs.”

Very suddenly, her gut feels like a capsizing ship. “Oh,” she says tinnily, and his expression shutters with guilt.

“I...we did. Erhm. Try, a few times. Out of duty, and so people would stop...ugh. _Asking._ And staring. But I don’t believe...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t think that Anora can. And we were both fine with that—I certainly don’t think it’s her fault. To be truthful, I didn’t want children with her. Not like that, not when they’d have parents that didn’t actually...love each other. I...”

“Don’t apologize,” she says, and even though it guts her, to think of Alistair lying with other women, she doesn’t _blame_ him for it. Ten years. She isn’t sure...she doesn’t know if things would have changed for her, over time. She won’t ever know. 

“I understand." She tries not to let her voice sound too much like sandpaper. “Really. You’re a good king, Ali. You do your duty, even when it’s hard.”

Alistair won’t meet her eyes. “You don’t mean that,” he says quietly. “How can you?”

Elissa has no real answer for him. She _is_ lying. She doesn’t understand. How any of this is possible, or why. But what else can she say? _I feel like I’m going to wake up any moment, and that this will be a nightmare. I want this to be a nightmare._

She wants not to have died, and she wants not to have come back at all.

“You don’t have to pretend,” she hears, and she looks up to see Alistair’s eyes on her. They’re a bruising brown, and she aches underneath their attention, aches at the sorrow within them. “I’ll understand. No one else would forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she says, and when he closes his eyes tight and shakes his head, she reaches for his wrist. “I wasn’t _here.”_

“I know,” he says, voice thick. And that’s the problem, at its core.

She wasn’t here. And her heart is cracking apart in her chest because of it.

“I don’t blame you,” she repeats, and puts effort into it. His face crumples, just a bit, and she knows he needs to hear this, even if it won’t heal the splintering she feels underneath her skin. 

“You didn’t betray me,” she whispers. “Look at me. I _know_ you. You always do the right thing. It’s one of many reasons why I love you.”

Alistair looks inches from proper tears, face wracked with guilt and regret and pain she can’t wipe away, but with a composure she hadn’t known he possessed, he visibly puts himself back together before her. He sniffs once, swallows hard.

“You’re too good to me,” he says, and the wistful note in his voice, like he’s talking about someone who isn’t standing right in front of him, carves into her. He swipes at his face, though there are no loose tears to gather. “They better put together that tent fast,” he mutters, “don’t trust myself not to have another come-apart. Not a good look for a king. Better to cry my eyes out in privacy, right?”

“If you want to run into the mountains for breakdown, I’ll go with you,” she manages, voice only a little reedy. “The trees won’t tease.”

“No, but you will,” he says, with a smile full of cracks, and he finally meets her gaze again, eyes red. She smiles reassuringly at him as best she can. She’s learned, after months together, that it’s often what Alistair needs most. 

“Only a little,” she agrees softly, and he joins their arms together. 

Alistair inhales, rubbing his face again. "Right." He tugs her through the door, voice regaining its strength. “Until then...let’s get some food in you. You’re still a Grey Warden, last I checked. I’m going to have to warn them about your appetite.”

“Rude. You’re no better,” she huffs. “Besides, I’m a growing girl.”

“S’what you said last time,” Alistair says, halfway to his normal cheeky self, and she follows as he drags her out the door. “You still eat like a starving mabari.”

Her grip on his arm goes tight enough to make him squeak and for a moment, her heart recalls the antidote for grief. “I’m going to hit you in public,” she says, and when he titters, trying to dance away with indignant delight, she feels a little better.

“Don’t, I’m fragile!”

* * *

They make their way through the Haven camp, ambling about like children hunting for treats. The entire village stares at them while they walk, and she can’t help but haunt Alistair’s side.

“The staring is...a lot,” she says quietly, and he dips a head.

“Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “I’ve gotten used to it, what with the shiny crown and all. Can’t stop people from looking, I’m afraid. Well. I _could,_ but then people wouldn’t like me very much.”

“Andraste alive,” she says, laughing. “How many insane suggestions do your advisors have to veto?”

“On a daily basis? Don’t count. They probably do though, poor sods.”

“You _sureee_ we can’t put on a royal puppet show?” she says, lifting her voice in mimicry of his light, insouciant tone. “But I think the children of Denerim would _likeee_ it.”

“Oooh, a puppet show? You know, you might be onto something with that!”

“Shouldn’t have said anything,” she says remorsefully. “You’re too powerful now, I can’t contain you any longer.”

“That’s right. And isn’t that loads more fun for me,” Alistair croons. His eyes are shining and for a second she feels buoyant, walking on air at his side, and she can almost forget where they are, how they got here, and the swirling hole in the sky.

The moment dulls a bit as her eyes track the houses of Haven, old weariness creeping into her bones. “It’s...strange, being here again. Haven seems a lot less. Um.”

“Creepy?” Alistair suggests. “I know. Sent soldiers in and got rid of all those dragon cultist nutters ages ago—the ones we didn’t kill the first time, anyways. They restored the Temple, and the Divine chose this place because it was...isolated from the rest of the world, and safer than the capital. Definitely more neutral. Coming here became a sort of pilgrimage for the faithful these last few years.”

“Without the demons and the hole in the sky, I can see how it’d be nice,” Elissa says generously, and Alistair snorts.

“Hey, Your Highness!”

A voice throws across the rows of tents, directing their attention, and Elissa sees a familiar face. Varric, Alistair’s friend. The author. She smiles, feeling something in her heart shift a little. Fergus would have loved to meet him; he’d adored the Tethras serials.

Alistair lifts a hand, and they make their way to the dwarf.

“Surprised they let you out among the common folk, and so soon,” Varric says, smirking. His open shirt really is a...bold statement, she thinks. A lot of chest hair. Surprisingly well-manicured.

“We barely escaped with our lives,” Alistair quips. “I had to ask for a break out loud and everything.”

“Heavy hangs the head of nations,” Varric intones, dry as parchment, and Elissa finds herself smiling. He’s funny. She likes funny. Prefers it, really. Morrigan, Sten, Leliana, Wynne, they could all be so serious. Alistair and Zev were often her only refuge for easy conversation, and Oghren—ugh. His humor had been far too crass, even for her.

“So have you two eaten?” Varric asks, his Free Marcher accent flat and friendly. “I had someone from the tavern whip up some impressive Soldier’s Cut stew, if you’re interested.”

“Might have to get a whole pot of it,” Alistair says, and _oofs_ when he gets an elbow in the side. Varric snickers as she smiles politely in gratitude.

“We would love some stew, thank you, Varric.”

“Happy to share,” Varric says, with a magnanimous spread of the hand. They set to it, after the dwarf rummages for some wooden bowls in his own tent, and finally, she and Alistair find a seat on a felled tree, dragged by the dwarf’s tent. They both sigh in unison the moment they touch down, relieved to be off their feet, and she can’t help but stretch. She’s tired, she realizes, but...she feels alright. Good. Apparently sleeping for three days is exactly what she needed, after a year on the road and a massive fight with an archdemon. And, well. Dying.

She’s tries not to think much on that part. Falling apart in front of the village isn’t high up on her to-do list.

“So, Varric,” Alistair says, after slurping on his stew with a hum of appreciation. “Going to tell me how you ended up here, of all places?”

“It’s....a long story,” Varric hedges, and when Alistair squints at him, the dwarf gives a small shrug. “It wasn’t too long after we parted ways at the Denerim port. I had some...family business to attend to, and things needed seeing to in Kirkwall. It’s a damn mess, still.” Varric sighs heavily, expression grim. “I hadn’t been in town very long before word picked up that the Seekers were looking for me.”

“The Seekers? Like Cassandra?” Elissa asks.

“ _Exactly_ Cassandra, actually,” Varric says, making a face. “Apparently, my _Tale of the Champion_ had convinced our fair Seeker that Hawke would be the perfect person to lead this little squad you set up today.”

Elissa crosses her legs, getting comfortable. “Who’s Hawke?”

Varric’s face goes blank for a moment before he laughs under his breath. “I haven’t heard that question in...Shit. You know, I don’t think I’ve _ever_ heard that question. Hawke tends to make himself known pretty...loudly.”

“Hawke’s a friend of Varric’s, Lis,” Alistair says, free hand on her knee. “He’s famous—but not as famous as you.” He winks, and she rolls her eyes. “Kirkwall named him their Champion a few years back. Nice fighter. Found himself in the middle of a lot of bad news, ended up on top every time. Fought the Arishok, stopped another Exalted March. You know, noble, unlucky hero stuff. I met him once, a few months before the Circle blew up. Good man. Sarcastic. Didn’t care a jot about my crown. You’d like him.”

“Pretty good, as far as summaries go,” Varric says, and the dwarf looks fond. “Hawke’s...a character all right. Literally, in one of my books. Wrote about a few scraps we got into when we lived together in Kirkwall. My most infamous work, incidentally. It’s why the lovely Seeker Pentaghast thought I might know how to find Hawke, and decided to track me down.” There’s a caustic undercurrent in Varric’s voice, a snark that bites under its casual tone, and beside her Alistair narrows his eyes.

“And did you?” he asks. “Know how to find Hawke?”

Varric shifts on his feet. “I don’t know where Hawke is,” he says plainly, and Elissa in no way believes him. The dwarf shifts some more, visibly uncomfortable but clearly unwilling to elaborate. 

“Varric,” Alistair says, frowning.

“I haven’t heard from him in weeks, Heart-eyes, and that’s what I told the Seeker,” Varric says, scowling. “She didn’t believe me, either.”

“Bet that went over well,” Alistair deadpans, and Varric scoffs.

“You could say that,” he says, mouth twisting. “But the Seeker...well. She can be...persuasive, when she wants to be. Charismatic, now that’s a bit too far, but definitely persuasive.”

Alistair’s brows crunch together. “So she convinced you to...what? Come here? Why?”

“To tell my story to the Divine, of course,” Varric says, with a theatricality that’s only lightly strained. “Don’t know _why_ she wanted to hear about Hawke, let alone from me, but the Seeker was insistent.”

“How insistent, exactly?” Alistair says, cottoning onto something in Varric’s choice of words, and Varric kicks at a bit of rock with his boot.

“Ehh, doesn’t matter. I’m here now.”

Elissa thinks upon the Seeker, about her passionate speech and intense disposition, and thinks about the same woman under pressure. “She threatened you, didn’t she,” she says, and Alistair’s chin jerks. Varric opens his mouth but Alistair cuts him off.

“She _did,_ didn’t she? Maker, Varric, tell me you’re not a prisoner here.”

“Not...anymore?” Varric lifts both hands at the sharp, disapproving noise Alistair makes. “Look, Heart-eyes, I’m touched by the concern, really, but the irons are off and I’m fine so long as I avoid the Seeker’s lethal glare. I’m here of my own volition, now, promise. Couldn’t exactly run away from all this, even if I wanted to.” Varric sighs, his broad shoulders slumping. “Thousands of people died on that mountain, and I was almost one of them. Might not be one of my best ideas, but I want to see this through.”

“Pretty noble of you,” Elissa observes softly, and Varric flaps a hand at her.

“There you go flattering me again,” he gripes. “Are you always this nice, or are you just into to charming gingers?”

Elissa throws back her head in a laugh as Alistair makes another, louder noise. “Oi! I’ll have you know she’s _always_ this nice, and _no,_ it’s not because you’re ginger!” He huffs, touching his hair like an Orlesian lady. “Besides, I’m much blonder than you are.”

“Must be the chest hair, then,” Varric muses. “Might have to start buttoning up around you, Softie, or His Majesty here might get jealous.”

“Softie?” she says, and she scrunches her nose. Not very impressive. “ _That’s_ my nickname? I look soft to you?”

“Oooh, watch out, Varric, she pinches.”

“It’s not about your _muscles,_ Warden-Commander,” Varric says quickly, defensive. “It’s your bearing. You’re _nice._ Like, _actually_ a nice person. And you make Heart-eyes over here goo when you look at him, and it’s not just him. The entire village is practically putty in your vicinity.”

“So I’m ‘Softie’ because I _make_ people soft?” She can’t help her skepticism. _Soft_. That’s a new one. Usually, she’d say she makes people very, very angry. Homicidal, in fact.

“That and you’ve got a lady’s soft, dulcet tones,” Varric says winningly. “Nobility’s left its marks on you.”

“So you want to see me _loud?_ ” Elissa asks, and Alistair giggles like a little boy in church.

“Why does nobody like my nicknames?” Varric asks, put out, and Alistair rolls his eyes. 

“Because nobody wants to be called a name based off their emotional state, Varric.”

“That was just you, and I changed it! Consider it a testament to our friendship!”

“Oh, because the new one is _so_ much better.”

“I pride myself on my accuracy,” Varric says, simpering, and Alistair coughs, blushing a little.

“Yes, well. You’re a very rude dwarf, you know. You act like you’re charming, but you’re not. You’re a bad person.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that the whole time, Majesty.”

Content for the moment, Elissa watches them bicker, and slowly sips her stew. It’s the tastiest thing she’s had in weeks.

* * *

After watching Alistair and Varric crow about and badger each other like an old married couple—and inhaling half a pot of rather excellent ram stew—she and Alistair leave Varric to some letter-writing and make their way out of the village center, following banners and a path of tents that slowly increased in size as they move. The sun is going down, and the temperature is plummeting with it; old habits have her becoming eager to return to the protection of four walls. Finally, they come upon the last in a long row of soldier’s tents, recognizable by the guards standing sentry at its entrance beside iron grates crackling with flames. 

“Told you it was a very fancy tent,” Alistair says, grinning at the expression on her face. It’s certainly a far cry from the raggedy, patchwork thing they used to have. Their tent stood through blood, sweat, and sheer will; the rug lain before the entrance of this one probably cost more than her best armor.

“We’re retiring for the evening,” he says to the faceless guards as they approach. “Let me know if anyone needs my attention, but the inside of this tent is not to be disturbed.”

“Your Majesty,” the soldier says, snapping his chin down in a nod, and the two of them enter the tent.

“Maker’s tears,” Elissa breathes. If the outside impressed, the tent’s interior astounded. It’s... _lovely,_ as far as tents go. Luxurious fur pelts cover every surface of the ground, and an actual _bed,_ headboard and all, sits in the tent’s left corner, covered in velvet pillows and warm wool blankets. Lit candles sit naked around the edges of the tent for light, just far enough away from the tent canvas, warming the space to a comfortable temperature even on Haven’s frozen earth.

“I know,” Alistair says. “Bit overboard considering how everyone else sleeps, but I’ve been told by my advisors that the king roughing it is sort of ‘bad’ for my ‘image’.”

“I’m not complaining,” she whispers. “Ali. That’s a _bed_.”

“Err. Yes.”

“I haven’t slept in a bed in a year,” Elissa says, breathless, and she feels lovestruck.

“Oh,” Alistair says. “Right. You know, the first weeks after I was crowned, I couldn’t sleep in the bed they gave me. It was just so...soft. And big. Thought I was going to drown in all the pillows.”

“That won’t be a problem,” she says, and finds herself drifting towards it as though enchanted, the memory of her bed in Highever all those months ago dancing in her head. _Maker._ Silk blankets. Down-filled pillows. _Comfort._

Her hands find its cushioned surface, and she turns around and slowly sits upon it. Closing her eyes, she lets herself fall backwards, and the groan that escapes her feels as though it has been buried inside for eons.

“I’m going to cry,” she says honestly, sniffling. “It’s so lovely.”

Alistair is snickering somewhere but she doesn’t open her eyes to look. She is in bliss. She’s never moving again.

“I’ll give you anything you want if you take off my boots. And maybe burn them, if you think I could find some replacements.”

Silence greets her, and after a moment, she wrenches open her eyes to see Alistair standing, frozen, staring at her. She frowns, leaning up. “Ali?”

Alistair swallows hard, and in the candlelight, she can see his eyes glittering.

“I...I just can’t believe it. That you’re here.” His voice is hoarse. “I didn’t think I’d ever...”

A stone lodges in her throat. “Come here,” she says quietly. She needs—she doesn’t know what she needs, but she always wants him. Inhaling, he obeys her command, and she guides him to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. 

“One second,” she says, and she begins to unceremoniously strip.

“Um—”

“I’m taking this armor off, I’ve been wearing it all day. Just one second, darling.” Off go her greaves, her armguards, her chestplate. The boots follow and she sighs at the feeling of soft pelts beneath her feet. “You’re lucky, they must have bathed me _and_ washed my socks while I was unconscious, because I should smell worse than darkspawn.”

“Wouldn’t care if you did,” Alistair answers faintly, and she straightens up to look at him. He’s still staring at her, absorbing her movements with attention, but he’s not just looking at her like he wants her. He’s tracking her like he’s trying to study her, and she knows it because she’s been doing the same thing all day. Taking him in. Detailing every aspect of him to memory, every part that she had taken for granted, every part that had changed.

She moves to his side, drawn there. Swallowing hard, she reaches for his face, and finds herself tracing his stubble with her fingers. He watches her, brown eyes dark and face somber.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” she says quietly. “Or how. But...I am glad.”

“Maker,” Alistair murmurs, pained. Something deeper than pained, maybe. “I am. I am, I’m so—” He leans into her, pressing his face into the nape of her neck and into her hair. “Lis. I...I keep thinking you’re not real. That I’m dreaming.”

Her heart cracks at a weak fault line, straight down the middle. “I’m right here,” she says, half to herself. “I am.” Her hands move to his jaw, and she lifts his face so he can meet her eyes. What she finds there makes her chest twist. He’s afraid _,_ looking at her, and it hurts. “You can see me. You can hear me.” She slides her hands down his face, his neck. “You can feel me.” Alistair closes his eyes, head tipping forward, and she presses her lips against his brow. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m...” Her voice falters, going rough like she’s swallowed rocks. “I’m sorry I went in the first place.”

“Lis,” he says, and his hands slide around her waist. “It’s alright.”

“No, it isn’t,” she says, eyes burning. Her heart is thudding in her ears, and there’s a fine tremble in her hands. “It’s not, none of it’s alright.” 

“Lis—”

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she whispers. An admission, frightened and small. “I died. I _died.”_

She feels hands on her face, swiping below her eyes. “Yes,” Alistair says. His eyes are glossy and red, and there are new tears trailing down his cheeks. Her doing.

“I felt it. I knew I was dying,” she says, choking on the words. She shivers, the memory of dull ice pooling beneath her skin. It’d felt like—like she was underwater, slipping into cold depths, and she’d been terrified. Not because it hurt, but because it had felt better than being awake. The cold had been numbing, and at that point she’d wanted to feel nothing at all, because her body was broken and killing the Archdemon had taken something away from her. Something she couldn’t live without.

Alistair is whispering to her, petting her hair, but he feels distant and she’s shaking her head against his chest. There’s a vice around her lungs and it’s tightening, and she can’t remember how to inhale; she’s freezing cold and she can’t stop shaking and all she can see is the demon. Massive, cruel, with eyes darker than the Void and teeth long and sharp enough to tear her apart. She can see her own blood in its mouth, can remember thinking about Alistair— _will he be okay without me?—_ and thinking about her father. _I wish you were here, I wish you were here, did it feel like this when you died?_

“Breathe, Lis,” Alistair says, voicing slightly frantic in her ear. “Breathe, sweetheart.”

“I don’t remember what came after,” she says, gasping. “I don’t remember.”

She sees teeth, swords of bone, dipped in red.

“You’re here, you’re right here, you’re safe,” Alistair is whispering, and everything is blurry when she opens her eyes, black spots blinking at her vision. He takes her face, makes her look. “ _Please,_ Lis, breathe. You’re _safe."_

Is she? She’s alive now, but not even on purpose. Her life is an accident. And Alistair, for so long, she left him _alone._ She feels her face crumple, and she finally sucks in a breath, desperate, because if she don’t she will burst, and with air her lungs seize and her throat aches. She buries herself in Ali’s chest, and she cries.

“I know, I’m sorry, I know.” He strokes her hair, and she can hear that his voice is thick with his own grief. She cries and she cries and he holds her, and when she’s spent her throat feels its been stripped raw. Her eyes ache, but Alistair is warm against her, a pillar she can lean on, and her breathing finally finds a steadier rhythm.

“I’m sorry,” she manages, and winces at the sound of her own voice. “It was—it was just too much, I couldn’t—I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, and slowly presses his lips to her temple, her brow, her cheekbone. “I’m surprised you didn’t fall to pieces earlier. Maker knows I did. No promises I won’t again anytime soon, either.”

Elissa takes in a deep inhale, breathes it out. Again. Once more. She sniffs and she looks at him. “I’m...I’m so happy you’re here,” she says weakly. “I don’t know if I could have managed today without you.”

“You don’t _need_ me,” he says, smiling. “You’re remarkable. But you have me anyways. Always.”

“You’re wrong,” she says. She remembers how she responded so similarly earlier, how his voice had gone ragged, and she gives him a watery smile. “I do need you. I do.”

She reaches up with a hand, cupping his face. “I love you,” she whispers, and she leans in. For the second time today, they kiss and she tastes the salt of sorrow, but this time, it’s sweeter. Her hand moves up to the back of his neck, carding through his curls—his hair is longer now, perfect for sliding her fingers through—and pressing her armorless chest closer against his. She ties herself to his warmth, in the sound as he inhales sharply through his nose, at the feeling of his hands smoothing up her arms and gripping her shoulders tight.

Wanting more, she nips at his lip, arching her spine towards him, and he groans lowly into her mouth. “Lis,” he says, when she pulls away just long enough to bring her legs onto the bed and face him directly, peppering kisses up the side of his jaw. “Maker.”

“Take off your armor, Ali,” she hums in his ear. Delight curls in her stomach when he shivers.

“Got it,” he says, words spilling in a gust from his mouth, and she can’t help her smile. Her mouth stretches into a full grin as she watches him half stumble out of his boots, chucking one across the tent, and his crown slumps askew on his head as he rapidly unfastens his engraved vambraces.

“No rush, Ali. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Ten years, Lis,” he says, with a slightly hysterical laugh. “I’ll be lucky not to explode.”

“ _Ali_ —” she says, turning pink, but he cuts her off by tossing his shirt and chestplate to the floor and descending upon her. She squeaks, overjoyed, when he clambers over her, mouth on hers and hands soldered to her waist. Heat coils in her gut, making her heart hammer, and Alistair pulls back to trail deliberate, fervent kisses around her jawline.

“Maker,” he says against her skin. “You can’t imagine how often I thought of this. Dreamt of this. I’ll never get enough of you. Ferelden’s going to need a new king, because my schedule is booked for the rest of my life.”

“Busy, are you?” she manages, giggling. Her heart skips a beat when his hands move up her chest, skimming teasingly over woven cotton before pausing at the fastenings of her collar, thumb probing the top button.

“Permanently,” he whispers, craning his neck to kiss the soft patch of skin behind her ear. “Not even the Breach will get me out of this bed. Mages and templars, who? Tevinter, where? Orlais, never heard of it.” 

Her continued laughter hitches as he makes short work of her buttons, pushing her armor at the collar to slide his hand over her bare collarbone, down her wrapped breast to her naked waist. Goosebumps break across her skin at his familiar touch, and her eyes flutter. She wants to close them completely, fall into his touch, but she doesn’t trust herself to stay in the moment, not after today.

“Maker, I want—” Alistair shakes his head, voice torn. “I’m going to go mad. I want to take my time because—because I—but I don’t know if I _can."_

“I know,” she says. She understands completely. “I want to. Too. I mean.” She sighs, hands moving to slide up his bare chest. His skin is a little different, firmer in some places, even more freckled in others. “I...” She trails off, her fingers finding unfamiliar terrain. She pauses, eyes cutting down to his left ribs, and she peers down. A scar. Several. A rippled, fine explosion of raised marks across tan skin, like shrapnel had been blasted into his chest.

“This is new,” she says quietly. He’s stilled above her, leaning over her with an arm.

“Yes,” he says, just as tentative. “It’s...I got it a year ago. In Tevinter.”

“Tevinter,” she repeats. She’s never left Ferelden. She recalls Alistair telling her the same. Clearly, it’s not something they have in common anymore. “...What happened?”

“Very evil magister,” Alistair says, grimacing. “Bastard, really. He’s dead now.”

“...Good,” she says faintly, and he shakes his head, huffing an amused breath.

“Yes, well. He was a bastard _before_ he turned his magic on me. Tried to possess me. Slimy git. Suppose he missed the news about me being an almost-templar.”

 _“Possess_ you?” she says, alarmed, and he shakes his head again.

“Another long story, darling,” he says gently. 

“You owe me a few of those.”

“More than a few,” he agrees solemnly. “And I will tell you. Whatever you want to know.”

“Everything,” she finds herself saying, and swallows hard. “I want to know everything. All of it. Everything I missed. Everything that’s happened to you, since I saw you last.”

“A lot of it was boring, thankfully,” he says. “Being King isn’t all that glamorous. But...there are some things. Things that were...big.” He reaches forward, a hand moving to brush her hair behind her ear. “I’ll tell you. You have a question, and I’ll answer.”

“I have a lot. How long have you got?”

“Rest of my life,” he says, and her heart thuds, hard and heavy, a knocker against her ribcage. 

“I’ll hold you to it,” she breathes, and closes the space between them. She kisses him, mouth locking against his. 

“You’d better,” he says, into her mouth, and kisses her harder, hand curling in her hair, teeth brushing her bottom lip. Her pulse picks up in her ears, and her hands migrate around to glide up his back, guiding him down to eliminate the space between their bodies. His mouth travels from hers down her chin, to her neck, nipping, and she sighs, closing her eyes as desire crackles to life in her belly.

“Maker!” Alistair says suddenly, and her eyes fly open.

“What?” she says, shaken by the look on his face, and his mouth spreads into a grin. 

“I—I almost forgot to tell you,” he says, as her hands drop from his back. “I—you reminded me earlier in the hall, with something you said, but I thought it’d be better if I waited until we were alone. Lis,” he says, and his eyes are shining. “It’s—it’s about your brother.” 

Her heart skips. “My—” 

“Lis, he survived the Blight. He’s the Teryn of Highever.” 

_Fergus._

_He’s alive._

“Fergus?” she whispers, and her vision blurs. “He’s—” She lifts a hand to cover her mouth. “He’s—”

“Yes,” Alistair says. “You’re not the last Cousland, my love. You’re not alone.”

She closes her eyes, hand pressed tight to her mouth, and shudders. _Fergus._ Her brother. He survived. It’s the best news she’s heard, as long as she can remember.

_You’re not the last Cousland. He’s Teryn of Highever._

_You’re not alone._

“Thank you,” she mouths into her fingers, shaking with silent tears. _Thank you._ To whoever was listening.

“Lis,” Alistair says, and she opens his eyes to see him smiling at her, so gentle and so kind, and she knows now, that whatever brought her here, no matter what she’s lost—she could have lost so much more. She _has_ so much more. Alistair’s heart and hands and love, her life, all blessings, and now, her brother. Alive.

“I love you,” she says, heart in her throat. She sniffs, and she smiles at him, hands reaching up to touch. “Lie down with me?”

“You’d have to chase me off with a broom,” Alistair says, and he drops his arm, folding himself flat against her on the bed, and she breathes in, and she breathes out. A hand finds her waist, tugs her close, and his face buries itself in her hair. Familiar, though the tent above her is different, and the man beside her is older.

But she loves him, just the same, and that will be enough for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this chap was an emotional rollercoaster. it's supposed to be that way. coming back to life isn't easy, right? the angst and fluff just kinda kept pouring out of me, sorry if anybody is feeling a kind of way about it. ;)
> 
> i tried to keep the exposition low--i know, i know, but i could have really gone off, you guys have no idea--because a chapter like this could kill the pacing, but truth be told, i started this fic precisely to write out these emotionally poignant, juicy moments, not just to tell a new story. ali and lis have so much to work through, i'm telling you, and it won't be easily resolved no matter how fluffy and adorable they are.
> 
> and i know you guys are asking: what about the dark ritual??? and to that, my response is multi-part. it always seemed like such a Big deux ex machina, and don't get me wrong, i always take it because alistair x warden 4lyfe, right, but in terms of ~story~, it's too coincidental to just have a trick to survive the sacrifice with both Grey Wardens intact. in this fic's universe, it was never an option, and I don't think Alistair or Elissa would have approved of having a magical child via Morrigan die for them, anyways.


	7. VII

**chapter seven**

Haven is a strange village.

It’s damn cold, with a wind that sweeps from the far-off mountains to flay the skin from her bones, and in all of her experience roaming forests and plains, she’s never encountered a place so _lonely,_ as beautiful as it is. Nothing like her clan’s clearing, of course: too many people crammed together, taking space instead of living among what existed before they arrived, and it’s so _noisy._ The villagers muster a low, persistent clamor, rowdier than her people and emptied of much of the joy, and in the distance soldiers clanged their swords together, barked orders in voices that arrowed through the air from far away. Her clan numbers only forty, but there are hundreds of humans here, all who had survived the great summit. 

Aidah almost misses the horrendous raucous of days ago, when there had been so many more.

She looks across the mountains where she stands on the edge of the village center. They’re as stark as they are lovely: snow-capped, violet-blue ridges reaching towards the sky like the spine of some mighty creature. And the Breach...the Breach is green like dreams, spinning and spinning overhead, nauseating, massive. Incredible. A power she had never thought could be wielded by a living being, and a part of its magic lived in her _hand._ Pain no longer hissed in her arm like an angry lynx, but an echo of the mark’s capabilities still tremors beneath her skin, strange and disturbing.

She longs for home. Wants her Keeper’s advice. Her father’s comfort. Free of the Chantry hall’s confinement—it smells so strongly of incense it made her head hurt, why do humans fixate so on lighting candles in holy places?—she finds herself gravitating away from the village sounds towards the evergreen outskirts, aching for something familiar. The deep winter forest looms quietly past the wooden huts and city walls, taunting her with the possibility of flight.

“Looking to make an escape?” she hears. “I cannot say I blame you.”

She turns from the winding path leading out of Haven to see Solas, standing not too far behind her, leaning on his tall wooden staff. There’s a knowing tilt to his mouth. She sees no vallaslin on his skin, but the sight of his simple clothes and bare feet, together with the sympathy on his face, bring her comfort.

“I’m not going to run,” she says, and it’s true enough. She’s thought about it, of course, _wants_ to, but she hardly can now. The Warden— _Elissa. Elissa bloody Cousland,_ she still can’t believe it—has lain it out plain and simple, and she agreed to Cassandra’s request after being offered the chance to leave. Even if she went back on her word, she couldn’t ignore her connection to the Grey Warden. They were bound, whether they liked it or not, by the Mark on her hand, with a magic cast by a dangerous unknown who had murdered thousands, and there was so much more at stake than her own fear. 

Besides, it wasn't as if she'd broken some holy human vase. She’d accidentally _resurrected_ someone. _The Hero of Ferelden._ Something like that, no matter how impossible, came with consequences, and she would see them out. If not to save her own skin, then to satisfy her increasingly desperate curiosity. 

“You don’t seem so certain,” Solas says, breaking her reverie, and she sighs.

“I am,” she says simply. “Doesn’t make it an easier decision.”

“Most important choices rarely are,” he agrees. Eyes the color of sunlight through low grass swivel to meet her gaze, alight with interest. “But is it one you yourself have made?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “I didn’t choose to place this Mark on my hand, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“Not at all,” he says, with a raised placating hand. “Forgive me. I intended to ask you how you were feeling about your...status here. Curious turnabout, going from prisoner to Andrastian herald overnight, no?”

Aidah rolls her eyes. “You’re not kidding. Humans are so... _odd._ ”

Solas smirks. “Indeed. Their fickle nature can be...amusing, in the right doses. And dangerous, in others. But for now, it seems their favor has swung to yours.”

“They gave me the opportunity to go,” she says. “But I chose to stay. Never thought I would trust in the words of a Seeker, but Cassandra seems...”

“Honorable?” Solas offers, and she nods. “Among her compatriots, I suppose her character is commendable. Her leadership is one of the reasons, of many, why I myself have chosen to remain here.” His mouth twitches into a smile. “Even surrounded by fickle humans as we are.”

“I was...surprised, when I first saw you,” Aidah admits. “I’d not met another mage since I’d left my clan, not one who wasn’t part of the talks. And I’d not seen another of our People for just as long.”

Solas’s expression shifts, but not strongly towards one emotion or another. A breeze over a pond. “Many would have called the mage-templar conflict a human affair, born of human ignorance.”

It’s hardly the first time she’s heard that sentiment. Regardless of responsibility, it was a conflict that certainly escaped the bounds of human society. Concern about its fallout is precisely what brought her to Haven in the first place. 

“Is that what you believe?” she asks. _Why are you here?_

He tips his head. “Human woes infect all others,” Solas says eventually. “But I was not unsympathetic to their discord. Nor the suffering this war has brought upon innocents.” His gaze leaves her, drawn up to the sky where the Breach swirls in silent tempest. “But war is not a uniquely human conquest. I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields, and I have seen the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war has its innocents.” The wistfulness fades from his expression, slipping into amusement as his attention returns from the heavens back down to her. “And its heroes. I’m curious as to what kind you’ll be.”

“Hero?” she repeats. “Does accidentally resurrecting one make me one by proxy?”

Solas chuckles, a low surprised sound. “Perhaps. It’s hardly a minor feat. No doubt you and the Warden will be depicted on pottery a hundred years from now, riding winged steeds into the Heavens to fight the Breach by sword.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Griffons would be interesting.”

“Mythal have mercy,” Aidah mutters. “Here I thought I was lucky not to be in the dungeon any longer. Now I’m to be immortalized in ceramics.”

“If you succeed,” Solas says diplomatically, and she scoffs.

“Yes, well, there is that. I don’t even know how to _use_ this magic, let alone survive closing something so large as _that._ ” She gestures futilely to the sky. “Perhaps I’ll not live forever on vases after all. Shame.”

“You have been awake all but a few hours,” Solas says. “There is time for you to practice your abilities. And determine more about the magic of the Mark itself.” He gestures, and after a beat, she follows him from the outskirts of the village closer in, eventually finding a seat in a small cabin where Solas must be rooming. Shelter from the wind is a blessing, and she rubs her arms as they sit across from each other.

“Have you eaten?” Solas asks her. “Drank anything, since you woke up? You exerted a lot of energy closing the rift, you must maintain your strength. We don’t know the toll of the Mark even dormant on your body.”

“I will eat something soon,” she hedges, pressing her lips together. To be truthful, she isn’t hungry at all. She feels slightly manic, like she’s been awake for too long and her instincts are blocking hunger in lieu of adrenaline. Anxiety and confusion have killed any urge to eat she might have. 

“Tea then?” Solas offers, and his kindness guilts her. 

“Don’t suppose you have any traditional brew?”

Solas pauses. “I have some sort of...root tea?” When she stares at him, he looks mildly embarrassed. “It is what I could scavenge from the ration stocks. I’m not much a fan of the stuff, but I find it is useful for thinking over.”

“Tea? You don’t like it, but you drink it to _think?_ ”

Solas shrugs his thin shoulders. “There are worse vices, I believe. Would you like some?”

Her hands are cold, so she says yes. Solas retreats from the cabin and returns swiftly with a copper kettle with a spout piping with steam in the cool air, spirits some cups from somewhere among his things, and parses out some indistinguishable rootbrew into each before pouring in the hot water. She watches his careful movements with melancholy uncurling in her gut. Her father made excellent willowberry tea. What she would give to sit beside him in the woods on the outskirts of camp, the two of them alone with the hush of the trees for company.

“Closing the Breach is our primary goal,” Solas says, breaking the silence to hand her a cup. Her hands wrap gratefully around it and she murmurs her thanks in her native tongue. “But I hope we might also discover what was used to create it.”

“And who tried to use it in the first place, and why,” she says, and can’t help the exhaustion that leaks through her voice. Solas nods seriously.

“Any artifact of such power—as well as one positioned to use it—is dangerous. The destruction of the Conclave proves that much.”

“Do you think whoever it was—could they have bitten off more than they could chew?” she asks, blowing anxious air across the surface of her cup. “Could they have perished in the blast?” _With whatever answers they needed?_

“You survived,” Solas points out, and her mouth twists at the point. That doesn’t offer much either. She doesn’t remember _how_.

“The artifact that created the Breach is unlike anything ever seen in this age,” Solas says, and her eyebrow lifts at that. Ancient civilizations, knowledge of magic across the Ages. _Who are you,_ Aidah thinks, _where did you learn what you know?_ Her teachings spoke of nothing close to the kind of power capable of such destruction or strangeness. “I will not believe it destroyed until I see the shattered fragments with my own eyes.”

“Fragments,” she echoes, and Solas’s eyes narrow slightly at her. “You seem certain this is an artifact, an object. That something like it might have existed at some point in history, if not recently.” She meets his eyes, mind turning. “...Did you...is this something you learned in the Fade? You mentioned...traveling there.”

Surprise brightens Solas’s eyes. “Indeed. I have learned much in my travels. In places where the Fade presses close to this world, where spirits gather after great battles or tragedy, I can walk deep into the past. The Fade is a...tapestry, woven from the echoes, dreams, and emotions of everyone who has lived and died. I can find memories and dreams no other living being has ever seen. I study them.”

Aidah blinks at him. She has never heard the Fade described in such a way; as a tool of research, or as a place one might navigate with a map throughout time. “That’s...extraordinary,” she says, honestly. “I’ve never heard of anyone going so far in the Fade like that. I can’t imagine...” She trails off, mind moving to her Keeper and his lessons about their history. “I can’t imagine what you must have witnessed.”

“It’s not a common field of study, for obvious reasons,” Solas says, but he seems pleased by her praise. No doubt many would have considered his ventures disturbing. “Not so flashy as throwing fire and lightning.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “You can’t do those things?”

He sighs. “...I can,” he says, bemused. “But the thrill of finding remnants of a thousand year dream?” A genuine smile crosses his face, making him look younger. It suits him, and suddenly she can see that he has freckles, faint brown dappling across the paleness of his skin. “I would not trade it for anything.”

She mirrors the happiness in his voice with an understanding smile. Passion for a field of study is something she’s always envied but never experienced for herself. As First, her Keeper told her she needed to find her niche, a path of study that could improve her clan’s way of life, but nothing had dug into her enough, captured her interest with enough fervor.

She certainly had her hands full now.

“Cassandra told me you were the one to talk to about...the connection I have. With the Warden.” She sips from her cup and tries not to wince at its bitterness, and Solas’s mouth twitches once more. “Could you...walk me through your theory, please? I’m at a loss for how to even think about it.”

“I make no claims of certainty,” Solas says, sobering. “The magic in your hand is not that with which any being alive is familiar. But there are tests. Tests I performed while you were still sleeping, both before and after you closed the Rift. The Warden...” Solas turns his chin, eyes going distant. “I was...stunned, when she fell through to our world. I was certain that she was a demon, taking the form of someone the spymaster would recognize but...no.” He shakes his head slowly. “She was human. And alive. And though Fade magic does not burn in her as it does in you, isn’t localized in the same way in her body...there _is_ a similarity.” His gaze returns to her, probing and intent. “I described it to Leliana, at the time, as a thread of connection. It is possible you forged that connection by dragging her through the Rift with the Mark but...”

“But my connection to her didn’t start when I pulled her through,” Aidah says, frowning. “...I _felt_ her. Through the Fade. I thought she was the Divine. The woman in the Rift, the one they claim was standing behind me.”

“The Divine?” Solas echoes, brow lifting. “And the connection _preceded_ the Warden’s return?” His expression furrows with thought. “That is...” he says, trailing off. “That is interesting.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Aidah says, and can’t help the petulance that leaks through her tone. “I was only a tween when she died. I never met her. I don’t understand how we could be connected.” Lifting a hand, she drags it up her temple into her curls, burying her fingers there.

“It must be in my memories,” she reasons quietly, frustrated. “Somewhere. But there’s...nothing. A blank slate. The last thing I remember is going to bed, the night before the Conclave was attacked. I’m missing an entire day.”

“It may be a result of magic,” Solas says, and the gentleness in his voice makes her look up. “Receiving the Mark might have been painful or traumatic. It is highly likely your brain is reacting to a negative experience, and diverting your conscious mind to spare you distress.” He smiles softly at her. “Do not push. The memories, if they are ever to return, will come back in time.”

“I’m not certain time is a luxury we can afford,” she admits, but tips her head forward. “Thank you. For your wisdom, and your kindness. And your...root tea.” She looks up to see him smirking.

“You did not like it,” he says, amused, “but I accept your thanks nonetheless. As for kindness, it is only tea. It is rare to have someone with whom I can speak freely of my studies, and I am glad to have found one who would not dismiss me out of hand for my academic pursuits.” He smiles. “Regardless. Like myself, you’re an elven apostate surrounded by human soldiers, many of whom hail from a templar’s background. There are many trials you are like to face.” The curve of his mouth is genuine. “I would not be one among them, if I could avoid it.”

“I...appreciate that,” she says, and the relief his words bring her are better than any cup of hot tea. “And everything you did, to keep me alive after the Conclave.”

“I was glad to do it. To help you, and determine everything I could about the Mark.” He rubs his smooth jaw. “Though I doubt my failure to save you would have been well-received by our resident Seeker.”

“I thought she was honorable,” Aidah says, using his earlier word with a frown.

“Amongst her peers, most certainly,” Solas concedes, and Aidah’s frown deepens. “But it is immaterial, now. At risk of sounding self-serving, your new title will likely shield me from any acts against my person on grounds of race or apostasy. You cast a large shadow, _falon_ Lavellan _,_ one people are as of yet unwilling to cross.”

“Aidah. Please.” She sighs. “I will have to...speak with her. To Cullen and Leliana as well. They call me Herald now, but will that change in the field, when I must use magic to defend myself? When they realize I don’t believe in their god or his revered wife?”

“Perhaps,” Solas says. “But for now, people just look to you and see hope. Hope that the endtimes aren’t truly upon us. It can be a powerful shield against prejudices, which now seem minor in comparison.” He pauses, and she finds herself blushing as he takes a moment to scan her carefully.

“Forgive me for my rudeness, Aidah,” he says. “But you are of the People, yes? Lavellan is your clan’s name?”

“Yes,” she replies, confused. “I take it you are not.”

“Correct,” he says. “At first, I thought you might be a wanderer such as myself.” He gestures with a tilt of the head towards her. “Your lack of vallaslin is...unique, amongst the clan people. Certainly you are of age?”

“Is that cause for doubt?” she asks, lightly teasing, and his lip twitches. “I do have the inking. My clan’s Chosen is Sylaise.” Reaching for her hair, she twists on the stool and pulls back her curls behind her hair to reveal the trailing of her tattoos where they weave from her left ear, trailing up and around its shell and downwards to her neck, slipping hidden into the collar of her new pale coat.

“Ah,” Solas says shortly, and the spark in his eyes has faded. Blinking at his reaction, she quickly pushes her hair back into place, and sets her cup upon the floor.

“Thank you for your kindness,” she says abruptly, somewhat stiff as she moves to her feet. “My hunger has returned, I’m going to ask Cassandra where I might find some food.”

Solas moves to stand as well, expression carefully neutral. “It was my pleasure. Until we speak again, Aidah.”

She swallows, heart shifting in disappointment. She’d thought she might have found a friend in him, but clearly, Solas is not completely comfortable with her either. “Goodbye,” she says, and she leaves his cabin with a stomach full of rocks, and a weariness in her bones that weighs down her every step.

* * *

She does not dream of the Fade.

In fact, when she opens her eyes to face the same Pride demon that has been dogging her for weeks, she’s surprised to find only darkness around her. Her eyes, almost as if in life, adjust to the low light by finding the crackle of a fire, a few feet before her perch on a fallen tree. She almost closes her eyes again at the familiar song of crickets and cicadas in the night, the splintering of a log into warm, reaching embers. _Home?_ she wonders, heart shifting her chest. She aches for the yellow-green canopy of the Free Marches. Maybe chance has finally given her a break with visions of it in her dreams. Demons warp the Fade however they wish; the forest, her most favorite place, is a good choice on part of tonight’s devil.

However, as she absorbs more details of the night scene around her, she comes to realize that the place surrounding her is not a forest she familiar with. Turning her head at the sound of whispering voices, she’s surprised to see two people sitting across from her on the other side of the clearing, their figures bathed in soft orange light.

Neither seem to notice her. One, a woman, turns her face from the night shadows into the light, and Aidah’s stomach drops. Elissa Cousland. Her image does not turn to speak to her with promising eyes. Instead, she’s turned towards the man beside her, with a low, tender smile. A beat, and she realizes, _Elgarnan._ That’s King Alistair, curled against her side. He’s younger than she remembers seeing him. His armor is muck-covered, chipped splintmail, his boots worn white around their edges. He and the Hero are both talking lowly with another, resting by the fire, and seemingly ignorant of her presence.

This is not a tactic she’s seen before.

“The two of you should sleep,” a voice says, moving across the clearing, and Aidah turns her head to see an older woman, in a healer’s dress, her white hair gathered in a perfect bun. She leans from outside a nearby tent, lined ahead of a string of others. “We’ve a long day tomorrow. Denerim is within a week’s walk.”

The king, his laugh lines erased, sighs lightheartedly. “Yes, mum,” he replies, and the woman scoffs.

“Cheeky pup,” she scolds, but her mouth twists in a wry smile.

“Respect your elders, Ali,” the Hero teases, giggling like the young woman she was, and the older woman sighs once more.

“Incorrigible,” she says, shaking her head. “You will drive me to an early grave, all of you. I must insist you get some sleep. _Proper_ sleep.” The last is pointed and the couple on the tree turn red as roses.

“Wynne!” the King squawks, in a very unkingly manner.

“Yes, Wynne,” the Warden says, with a suitably obedient smile, and winks at the blushing Alistair above her. Wynne rolls her eyes and tucks herself away, and Aidah finds herself drawn back to the couple waiting. At the same time, the Hero’s gaze moves away from Wynne towards Alistair, but halfway there, across the fire, their gazes somehow meet.

The Warden blinks at her. Seeing her. Her scarred eyebrows crunch together, confused.

“You,” she says, her powder soft voice almost hushed over the fire. Cautious recognition flickers in her eyes. Aidah braces herself. She’s not certain where this dream is going, but eventually the temptation must start. She has never walked in dreams that weren’t set traps.

“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” Elissa asks, and Aidah stares. That’s not, out of anything, what she expected her to say. The Alistair at her side says nothing, waiting with a vaguely blank, expectant look on his handsome face.

“I believe I’m the one dreaming here,” Aidah replies, curiosity tempered by weariness. “This is a strange strategy, demon. What temptation can the Warden and the King offer me?”

Elissa stares at her, and even though Aidah knows she is an illusion, she finds herself blushing at the unintentional entendre in her words. Well. Perhaps the demon _might_ be onto something there. She’s had a crush on the Hero of Ferelden since she was a tween, and she’s hardly anything less than stunning in reality…

“I’m not a demon,” Elissa says. Her voice isn’t offended. Rather, it’s perplexed. “Why would I…this is _my_ dream, not yours.” She gestures around herself, hand landing on the knee of the man sitting in contented stasis at her side. She looks suddenly disturbed. “I…I’ve never _known_ I was dreaming before. Even dreams of the Blight…” She trails off, shaking her head and sliding her hand up Alistair’s thigh with faint disbelief. “This is so odd. If it is a dream, can I make anything happen? Whatever I want?”

Aidah opens her mouth, no doubt to argue, when Elissa holds out an open hand.

“Tea!” she cries. Nothing happens. “Aww. That’s a shame.” She presses her lips together in disappointment. “Please?” The air offers her nothing, and she sighs longingly.

“You are a very strange demon,” Aidah says, discomfited.

"I said I’m _not,”_ Elissa insists, frowning. “You’re a figment of my imagination. I saw you earlier today, and now you’re in my dream. That happens. _You’re_ not a demon, either. Well. Unless I am dreaming about demons and this starts going very wrong very fast, but you still wouldn’t be a _real_ demon. The Seeker said I’m not magic, so there’s no threat of that.” She blanches lightly. “I hope.”

The wind around them shifts and sighs, a discordant whisper, and Aidah straightens her shoulders. “I don’t believe you,” she says simply. “So we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

Elissa lifts a scarred eyebrow. “I suppose,” she says slowly, uncertain. “This is very strange, you know.” The statement and tone of voice, obvious and amusing, reminds her enough of the King beside her that Aidah cannot resist a chuckle.

“Maybe. Dreams generally are.”

Elissa shrugs her armored shoulders. “When they’re not about Archdemons, my dreams are usually quite normal. Confusing, hard to remember afterward. Sometimes good.” Her hazel gaze drifts to the man at her side, something longing in her face. “Sometimes bad.” She swallows hard, hand lifting to his still cheekbone. “He looks…” Her voice fractures. “Like how I remember. How I left him.”

Aidah feels her chest cramp. The pain on the Warden’s face is enough to dredge up doubt, and that’s a dangerous feeling. “Do you know why we’re connected?” she blurts out, forgetting herself. The Hero blinks rapidly, the heartache fading from her face as she turns to meet her eyes.

"I…” That noble brow furrows. “I don’t. I’ve never…I don’t recall even seeing any Dalish young girls when I invoked their treaty. I don’t know you.”

Aidah sighs heavily. Of course. Even if this wasn’t a demon trick, it was nothing she didn’t already know. “I don’t understand this. The magic. The attack on the Conclave, the Rift. I don’t know how I brought you back.”

Elissa’s gaze holds her, a quietly powerful thing. For a moment, she had forgotten that the Warden was also a Warden-Commander. A leader. A noblewoman. A general and the last of her army, the only woman standing between the Blight and the rest of Thedas. Aidah can understand, sitting beneath the weight of that knowing gaze, why so many leaders lent their swords to her. “Then we will find the truth ourselves,” she says plainly. Her voice is so certain and uncompromising that Aidah can almost believe her at her word. “If not for our own sakes…” Her gaze wanders back to the frozen Alistair. “Then for everyone who is depending on us.” Eyes cut back to her. “I do not know the state of this world. But I know the stakes. You can see it in their eyes. Alistair. Leliana. Cassandra. The attack on the Conclave has sent us into war.” Her youthful features turn grave. “The people responsible for the explosion wanted this. They may not have intended for… _whatever_ put the Mark on your arm, but they did count on the consequences. On the divide. We have to try to stop the mage-templar conflict, gain allies…or whoever killed the Divine will crush us in our disarray, one by one.”

The words are chilling, but strike home in her chest. She had been thinking the exact same thing, and the burden of it positioned like a guillotine behind her neck. “And you think… _this_ is how we do it?” she whispers. “Through this…Inquisition? Through the Seeker and her Templar Commander and the Divine’s most lethal spy?” She cannot conceal her skepticism. Of all the human groups in Thedas, it is the Chantry and Order that disturb her most.

Elissa presses her lips together. “I think…” she says softly. “I think it can be whatever _you_ want it to be.”

Aidah gapes at her. “I’m a _Dalish apostate,_ ” she says, with a disbelieving, mirthless laugh. “I have no power here. I was in the _dungeons_ a few days ago because they were certain I was a threat!”

Elissa blinks slowly. “They were wrong,” she says. Her calm is strangely captivating. “But they look to you. Call you Herald despite all that.” Aidah scowls, opening her mouth, and Elissa shakes her head. “It’s…absurd, I know. But I felt the same when Ali told me they call me the _Hero of Ferelden._ ” The woman snorts. “Do you know that I’m just over twenty? That when I was recruited into the Wardens, I’d never been in a real fight in my life?” Her laugh was soft and a little pained. “People name what they need. They don’t care what you think of it, they call you what they _pray_ for. Would it be easier if this had all happened in one of your camps, and they called you a Herald of Mythal?”

Aidah blinks at her. It sounds just as absurd, but she can almost imagine it. Her clan’s weary avoidance of her shifting into awe and something almost like fear. Whispering and talk of prophecy, of gods and fate. “Maybe,” she says faintly. “But probably not.”

"“I don’t mean to say that you should get used to it,” Elissa says. “Or say nothing when they try to fit you into their…narrative. But their belief in you has power. _Real_ power. Even if you didn’t have the insane, genuinely terrifying ability to resurrect people from death—” Aidah can’t help the horrible dry laugh that escapes her, and Elissa’s mouth twitches in a smirk. “You would still have their hope. With that, the Inquisition can be what you want it to be. A Chantry-blessed army, if you wish.” Elissa makes a face, and Aidah can’t help another laugh, but this one is more genuine. “Or our last chance.”

Aidah’s mouth goes dry. “And if I don’t—if I can’t?” She licks her lips. “I don’t know if I have the strength for this. I'm not a leader. I’m a First without a specialty. An apostate elf surrounded by humans. I want—” _I want to go home,_ she almost says, but the words clog in her throat.

Sympathy fills Elissa’s face. No. Empathy. “I know it’s frightening. But…you’re not alone in this. You may have the Mark, but…for what it’s worth…” She smiles wryly. “Fate has sort of tied us together. Understand I'm just as invested in learning about that thing on your hand as you are, and in stopping whoever is currently tearing the world apart. I only just put this place back together!”

Aidah coughs a laugh, and Elissa leans gently against the unmoving Alistair at her side, smirk fading. “I will do whatever I can to help you,” she says gently. Aidah’s heart swells. It doesn’t fix anything, but the Hero is pledging to be with her through this mess. It’s more than she thought she had, and a better comfort than she thought possible. “And know this. Ferelden is behind you. At least, its King is.” She tilts her head towards Alistair. “You might not be able to take my word for it, but if you remember any of this when we wake up…know you can trust him.” Her face practically bleeds it. Love. A kind that she has never known. “The both of us…we’ll do whatever we can to stop this.” Devoted eyes turn to her, twinkling. “It’s sort of our _thing._ ”

Aidah shakes her head, through her amusement and quietly growing awe. The Hero of Ferelden isn’t anything like the plays or songs. But she might be better. “You make it sound so easy,” she says, a little hopelessly.

The light on the Warden’s eyes sobers. “It isn’t. It’s harder than you can possibly imagine. But it’s worth it.”

Behind them, the forest shifts and sighs, the wind picking up louder in her ears. She stills, her ears prick on a sound that nearly slips into the noise. Imperceptible, nearly…but almost as if something is moving quietly through the darkness, brushing through branches. Something large.

“Aidah?” Elissa asks, confused. Her eyes widen as the sound grows a little louder. The imaginary cicadas and forest creatures fall silent, and the hairs on Aidah’s arms lift up. A presence leeches from the darkness behind them, creeping across the forest floor out of infinite darkness. A shifting. Coming closer.

“What is…”

Elissa is on her feet, hazel eyes wide with alarm. Aidah stands too, her heart pounding.

“I told you,” she whispers. “I told you we were in the Fade.”

Elissa pales. “But I…I’m can’t…”

Aidah swallows, the feeling of something powerful slipping like black frost over her skin. “I can.”

“What do we do?” the Warden whispers. Aidah almost wants to laugh. The Hero is asking _her._ But she is no mage. This is a form of horror that she has never encountered in the waking world, not without a real sword in her hand.

“Fight. As much as you can,” she says. She turns, and this time she is the one holding the gaze between them. “And _never_ say yes.”

Elissa clenches her fists at her side. “Alright,” she says back, voice a breath. The presence looms closer, and the Fade image of the forest before them seems to stretch and contort, darkness swirling into eddies of shadow as something approaches.

“Elissa,” she says, in a voice like fine steel. She still doesn’t know how they’re here, but if this is real….if they are somehow walking together in the Fade… “Don’t trust anything you see or hear. Nothing you can sense.”

Elissa swallows hard, and jerks her head in a nod.

“Not even you,” she says softly. Aidah’s heart twangs. So she understands. The Fade’s first and cruelest lesson.

As one, they turn towards the darkness coming closer, and she thinks, _At least I’m not alone._

* * *

She gasps awake in her bed to a dark ceiling. Her palms are damp with sweat. The winter night creaks across the wooden roof of her cabin.

Now, she’s alone.

 _Mythal save me,_ she thinks. _I am tired of the impossible._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, i'm not dead! sorry for the wait but 2020 has been...insane. an insufficient word for it, but there you go. but winter has sent dragon age crawling back into my heart regardless. so buckle up for some more alistair/cousland and DA character goodness. Next chapter is Ali's POV, and things may or may not get steamy. ;) 
> 
> as usual, drop a comment below if you like the story. if i didn't respond before, it's bc i waited too long and now i'm embarrassed. regardless, if you commented before, know it's you that's kept this story going. <3


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks so much for the comments on the last chapter. Happy holiday to my American readers (the break from uni is the only reason I have the time to publish this chapter!)
> 
> Note: this chapter features explicit (if brief), angsty sex and deals with the experience of touch starvation. If you are uncomfortable with explicit material, skip once you get to the paragraph _"He says nothing, swallowing thickly..."_ and pick up again at the paragraph starting with _"She slides her fingers up his cheekbone.."_.

**chapter eight**

He wakes with his hand on her waist. 

Her breathing comes in sighs, shifting beneath his arm. She’s curled into him like a comma, her back a strip of soft heat against his chest, and her hair is a golden mess, spilling over her bare shoulders onto her pillow. 

He listens to the sound of her quiet breathing, its lone rhythm in the quiet of the tent. A lump settles in his throat. Tears do not come, but a heavy weight sinks into his stomach, river stones lining the path from his mouth to his heart. 

The fractured slivers of last night’s dreams sit beneath the surface of his skin, flashes of confusion, fear, and deep, familiar grief. The line of her body against him counters their chilling grip, but inspires something else, something barbed and painful as his awareness grows. Swallowing hard, he takes great care not to wake her as he leans against her, slowly tightening his grip beneath her breasts. He swallows hard, throat like gravel. _Still here._

It’s almost too much. The sun peeks through the tent, a pane of light over her tanned skin, and the furs are warm. She is even warmer. It’s…good _._ So good, he thinks, that he’s numb with it. He’s never known a better morning. He’s awake, and she’s here. He could want for nothing. 

Yet through that faint, complete joy, there is something else. Lying in bed beside her, wrapped around her, he feels bereft. Like he’s standing naked in the middle of an empty field, and Elissa’s skin is the only warmth for miles. 

He hasn’t slept with another person in years. The feeling of naked skin, the distant thunder of her heartbeat echoing against his chest, is almost overwhelming. 

The _warmth_ of her. The smell. The curve of her waist underneath his forearm. He feels the sudden urge to squeeze her tight enough to hurt. The need to take hold of her and drown himself in her, chase out everything but the feeling of her hands, her lips, brushing every part of him. Memories of the night before, of her palms sliding up the planes of his back, bloom heat into his gut. Every inch of his body is lonely. Aching with it. 

The shift in his breathing must have stirred her, because she’s suddenly twisting in his arms. She inhales, deep and slow, a palm over her eye as she squints in the morning sun. She tilts a little more, his hand sliding to her other hip, as she turns to face him. 

“Good morning,” she whispers. Her hazel eyes are the loveliest thing he’s ever seen, the sunlight through her eyelashes forming a wreath of white-gold. 

He just looks at her, taking her in. Her face, her mouth. Her unkempt hair and the scars dappled all over her undressed form. 

“Ali?” 

He says nothing, swallowing thickly. He moves the hand on her hip upward, the bone of his thumb sliding up her waist. She watches him, studying the expression on his face. Lust, intense and grief-stricken, strikes his abdomen.

She looks at him, and must see something. Something in his face, in his silence, because without saying a word, she stretches up. He stares, heart hammering, as she rises from the sheets, light rippling across her skin as she lifts a leg over his waist. His pulse _thuds_ in his chest at the feeling, the cushioning of her legs on the sides of his hips, the overwhelming warmth at the apex of her thighs on his stomach. 

Her hands spread across the flat of his chest, smoothing over his pectorals. Her calloused fingers leave a trail of dull fire in their wake, and he realizes he’s already hard. She bends, those hazel eyes breaking their hold on him to drop slow, deliberate kisses on his sternum. His hands find and grip her waist, fingers digging into flesh, but she doesn’t divert her journey up his collarbone, leaving lingering kisses that curl up his neck, his jaw. Her face pauses to hover over his, eyes dilated in want, and his hands move from her hips to her arse, squeezing. She sighs, eyelids fluttering, and finally her mouth is on his. 

She doesn’t tease as she did before. This time, her tongue traces his bottom lip, the kiss burning deep enough to tear the breath out of his lungs. She undulates against his body, hands dragging down his smalls with practiced ease. The feeling of her wrapped breasts brushing the surface of his chest, peaks budding through cotton, rattles apart his senses. He seizes her hips, lifting her just enough to slide her lower. The friction has him groaning into her mouth, a maddening ache that dangles him over the precipice. He clenches his jaw when her breathing shifts into a moan, the length of him dragging against her center. 

_Maker._ He’s wanted this for—he _needs_ so much more— 

She takes his mouth again, biting his lip, and she practically whimpers as he lifts his hips up, chasing the damp stretch of her. It’s too much and not enough. In a sudden movement he’s tipping her over on her side, exhaling sharply through his teeth. He bears down on her, seizing the hem of her delicates and dragging them down to her knees. They’re panting now, the both of them, and he leans over, hand diving down. He swallows a curse as she gasps, head tossing back onto the pillow when he drives two fingers into her, his thumb swiping a rough circle across her clit. The sound she makes nearly sends him over as she twists upward, desperate to guide his fingers where she needs them most, and as he pulls out to add a third, she takes his wrist. 

“Ali,” she whispers. Her pupils are dark pools. The sound of her voice, breathless and wanting, wrenches at something in his chest. “I—you don’t need to. I’m ready now.” 

His rapid heartbeat stutters. It hasn’t been ten years for her. It’s barely been three days. He surges forward, taking her mouth in a kiss. _I love you, I want you,_ he wants to say, but his mind is eaten up by fire, by need. Her hands find his shoulders and apply firm pressure. He tips back over at the suggestion, blood thrumming as he realizes her intention. When she climbs atop him, he has to throw his head back, teeth gritted, to keep the cry from leaving his mouth. She spreads her legs over him and he can't bear to look away for a moment, transfixed by the sight of her thighs parting above him. But then his eyes slam closed as she begins to sink down, slow enough he could _scream._ Instead, he holds onto her desperately, jaw clenched in ecstasy as she finds the hilt of him. She moans softly, breathless, and begins to roll her hips. Steady, building, riding him _._ She’s _perfect_ around him, pure heat and friction, and he is not going to last ten seconds. 

“Maker,” he chokes out. “I love you.” 

She gasps, pace stuttering, and when she clamps down on him, he sees white. He shudders, eyes wrenching shut, moaning as he bursts and twitches inside her. Her walls spasm and contract around him, carrying him through the waves of her own pleasure through quieter tides of his own. She slides off, slumping to pour onto his body, and he gathers her to him, kissing her sweaty neck. His thoughts go muddy, his blood slowing to a warm, sated pulsing. 

She slides her fingers up his cheekbone, beneath his eyes, wiping away what he only now realizes are tears. “I love you too,” she says, eyes glimmering. 

Crushed gently to his front, the feeling of her body seems to break his heart. He opens his mouth, an apology already on his lips—they’ve never made love like that before, fast and nearly silent, and she shakes her head, stopping him before he can speak. It hangs between them, heady and prickling, and he leans forward to kiss her scarred brow. He closes his eyes, vision blurring behind his eyelids, holding her, being held. _I needed this. I needed you._

He tells himself that he would wait another decade, just for this. That they can move past this, and that one day, waking up beside her won’t make him feel like falling apart. Burying his face into her hair, he doesn’t really believe it. But maybe one day, he will. 

Suddenly, the silence outside their tent is broken by the sharp, rhythmic thuds of pikes striking the earth. Elissa stiffens in his arms, and he quickly drags the sheets up around their naked bodies at the signal of his guards that a visitor has asked for audience. They won’t be stupid enough to enter without permission, but he isn’t taking chances with the both of them underdressed as they are. There _is_ a war on. 

He presses an apologetic peck to her temple. “Never a moment’s peace,” he says roughly, finally finding his voice. She smiles uneasily at him, her cheeks still flushed from their exertions. 

“Not even a king can be in bed all day,” she quips, eyes shining. The heavy tension between them chips away, breaking off like the shoulder of an eroding cliffside. 

“Unfortunately, no. Almost makes you wonder what the point is, then.” 

She chuckles. “Wealth, power, and luxury, maybe?” 

He shrugs. “They’re alright, I suppose. I’m just in it for the fancy dinners, really. You should _see_ the cheese they send me from Orlais. Sinful.” 

Her giggling is proper now, shivering out of her as her eyes crinkle, and sweeping, desperate affection closes his throat. 

“Maker, but you’re beautiful.” 

Her eyes glimmer with sudden unshed tears. “So are you.” She reaches for his face, kisses his cheek. “But we’ve a kingdom to save, darling. I think it might even be yours?” She reaches for the floor, and lifts his crown from the fur rug. The sight of the silver circlet, glinting in her hands, makes something nameless shift in his gut. Something like dread. But also something like…hope. Excitement. He has been regent for a decade, but with her here the weight of the throne feels lighter than it’s ever been. 

The person waiting at their tent door is a messenger from Leliana, telling them in no uncertain words to get the blazes out of bed and meet them back in the Chantry house as soon as possible. The message makes Elissa laugh while she shrugs back into her boots. He watches her dress with something blooming in his chest, a sea of hesitant, low-simmering joy that comes to crest when she stretches to place his crown on his head, brushing imaginary lint from his grey-furred shoulders. 

“Very fancy,” she says appreciatively, leaning back to observe him. She shakes her head with a low whistle as his face burns, feeling almost twenty years old again under her light-hearted ogling. “That cape is something else, Ali. Almost regal!” 

“Almost,” he agrees. 

She grins. “Who knew kings could be so sexy?" She thumbs his chin when he snorts, hazel eyes softening. “I wasn’t used to your stubble at first, but it…definitely works for you.” 

“It works for you, too,” he teases, and she claps her hands to her cheeks, where the fair, freckled skin is pink from friction. He laughs, tugging her in for a chaste, sweet kiss, and she sighs, tucking herself against him. 

“This is going to be a long day, isn’t it?” she says, muffled. 

“Oh, the _longest.”_

* * *

They drift back to the Chantry house, avoiding the gazes of people as best they can and smiling politely when they can’t. He’s had ten years to practice a mask for the public, but Elissa’s smiles are genuine, tentative. Every time she waves at a starstruck passerby, his heart twinges in his chest. He tries not to imagine, like so many times before, how his life would have been different if she’d been at his side as Queen. Maybe things would be better. Maybe she would have slapped him awake, _done_ something about Kirkwall before it was too late. Maybe they wouldn’t be here at all, with the entire world splitting at the seams. 

_And maybe I would be less depressing,_ he thinks, wearied by the train of his own thoughts as they make it to the War Room. Elissa’s gaze finds his as they pass through the open doors, trailed by the silent guards that follow them like an invisible, moving border. He musters a smile her direction, and she quietly brushes her knuckles against the back of his hand. 

“Morning, everyone,” he says, plastering a smile across his face. “I’d say it was good, but unfortunately, the hole in the sky’s still there. Shame.” 

“Your Majesty.” 

Cullen, Cassandra, and Josephine have already gathered around the massive oak table, heads bent over the Inquisition writ splayed across Orlais, and Leliana looks up from a letter in her hand. Her eyes soften at the sight of them. 

“Elissa,” she says. “You look rested.” 

“First decent sleep I’ve had since Brecilian Forest, feels like,” Lis says, smiling. “The wonders of cotton sheets.” 

Leliana’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Yes, I can well imagine. Do you remember sleeping on the floor our first week in the Deep Roads, when Alistair killed that hurlock and got Blighted blood all over our cots? I thought Morrigan was going to kill him.” 

Lis giggles. “She _was._ I had to take her staff.” 

_Like she needed it._ A truly horrendous memory; he represses it ruthlessly. “Ha ha, yes, hilarious. Stop embarrassing me in public. I passed a law against that, you know.” 

“And if you’re the one embarrassing yourself? Do have to pay fines?” 

“Actually, the Landsmeet takes away my fun privileges. An entire week without sparring, mead, or bubble baths. It’s cruel and unusual punishment.” 

“Practically torture, Your Majesty,” Leliana says flatly, eyes twinkling as Lis puts a stricken hand over her heart. 

“Using sarcasm against your king is _also_ a crime.” He lifts helpless hands to the room. “See what I have to put up with? No respect for the leader of their country.” The edge of his mouth flickers with a smile, impossible to resist when Leliana looks transformed and Elissa’s shining rays of pure joy all over. Cassandra, Cullen, and the ambassador Montilyet are all staring awkwardly, looking between them as if unsure how to respond, and he sighs. All work with these three, then. Ending this war is going to be so _fun._

“Where’s the real guest of honor, then?” he asks, gesturing. Aidah from Clan Lavellan is nowhere to be seen. In the corner of his eye, Elissa’s smile drops off. Like a closing book, Leliana’s mirth folds away from her face, expression sobering. 

“I’ve sent for her, she should be here any moment. In the meantime, we have much to discuss. And time to take action is dwindling as we speak.” She lifts the letter in her hand, and his eyes catch the watermarked insignia visible in its margins. 

“You have news from Redcliffe,” he says, solemn. 

Leliana nods. “And it’s not good.” 

“What’s happened?” 

Leliana opens her mouth, and at that moment, the wooden door behind them creaks open. Stepping like a slightly skittish cat, the elf from the Rift joins his left side at the table, eyeing everyone warily with her dark eyes. 

“Good morning,” she offers quietly, and bows her head low in his direction. “Your Majesty.” Dark circles sit under the elven woman’s eyes like purple half-moons, and her waist-length curls have been wrangled into a long, messy braid of ebony. She looks exhausted and anxious, a fish out of water, and he feels a surge of sympathy. Nobody one day and leader the next? He knows that feeling. It still lives under his skin. 

“Good morning, Herald,” Cassandra says. “I trust you are recovering well.” 

“…Yes,” Aidah replies, nodding once, and her eyes slide from the Seeker to Elissa. For a moment, Alistair stands invisible between them, and he remembers what Leliana told him yesterday. _A connection. Sharing energy. Fade bond._ Bloody confusing, weird, scary magic, with Lis caught in the middle. 

“So. Aidah of Clan Lavellan,” he begins. The elf stiffens to attention, gaze ripping away from Lis to find his, and he tries his best not to look intimidating. “Didn’t have much a chance of introducing myself earlier, but I figured the crown might have done it for me. It does that sometimes, but it’s no excuse for rudeness.” He offers a smile. “I’m Alistair. Where you’re concerned, you can leave the titles—and the bowing—at the door.” 

Aidah’s dark eyebrows shoot up in surprise, her brown cheeks blushing russet red. “Are—are you certain, your Majesty?” she asks. “I—” 

“You brought Lis back from the dead. You could call me ‘Your Royal Knobhead’ and I’d say “please and thank you”.” 

Aidah puts a swift hand to her mouth, muffling a surprised cough of laughter, and slowly, she nods her head. “As you wish.” She swallows. “Alistair.” Her full mouth twitches. “If you don’t call me Herald.” 

A laugh clips out of him. “Deal. We’re going to get along.” He gestures to the waiting group of frowning advisors across the table. “Welcome to the meeting, we were just discussing the end of the world. Possibly, Redcliffe has exploded. Care to join the fun?” 

Aidah’s dark skin blanches. “Exploded?” 

“Not quite yet,” Leliana cuts in, voice stern. “But we have received word from the Hinterlands. The mage-templar conflict has sparked into outright warfare. Witchwood is now an active battlefield, and Redcliffe has closed the city.” 

Alistair’s gut clenches. “Teagan must have ordered it right after I left,” he says, grim. “Without my guard, they’re undergarrisoned. Has there been word from the Grand Enchanter? I granted her people refuge in Redcliffe, under the condition that they not participate in any fighting on the Arl’s lands.” 

Cullen and Cassandra exchange speaking looks at that, and he feels his expression harden with disapproval. He knew coming here there were lingering allegiances within the people chosen to lead. If they become more than that, this Inquisition might not last a week. _Or become a new problem all on its own._

Leliana shook her head. “We’ve received no word yet. And unless they raven to you directly, they won’t reach out to us. Our path to legitimacy in the eyes of any Theodosian groups will be a difficult one, even with your endorsement.” 

“The only time I’ve ever wanted everyone to acknowledge my authority,” he says, mirthless. _Typical._ “But I imagine the support of the Crown is only so much when its split in two.” 

The ambassador looks dismayed. “Is Her Majesty truly so opposed to supporting our efforts?” 

Alistair grimaces. “If she knew of them, yes. Anora has seen war before. She believes that offering overt support to either party, mages or templars, is the path to full-scale war. To an extent, I agree with her. But we’re both sympathetic to the plight of mages, now that the Circles have collapsed. It is why we granted Fiona’s people safety in Redcliffe.” He avoids Cullen’s eyes, which have found the floor. “Kirkwall was the line in the sand for her. Throwing our support behind the mages—or the templars—after witnessing what they’re capable of…Anora believes strongly that it leaves the kingdom open to outside attacks. From the Qunari. From Tevinter. Even from Orlais, if with politicians rather than soldiers. She has a point, but our preferred methods of _dealing_ with the problem…differ. Dramatically. Especially where the Chantry is concerned. When she finds out I’ve pledged Ferelden men and official support to a military movement led by a Dalish elf branded Andraste’s Herald?” He cracks a weak smile as Aidah shifts uncomfortably. “Let’s just say she won’t be thrilled and leave it at that.” 

“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple,” Leliana says, but shakes her head. “But that can wait. For now, we have more urgent problems. Namely, the Hinterlands—” 

“And the Chantry,” Cassandra adds. “The Grand Clerics are…”

“Losing their minds?” he interrupts. Cassandra presses her lips together, visibly displeased, and nods tersely. “Sorry, but wasn’t that inevitable? They’re going to hate us for existing, let alone for attempting to gather power after the Divine’s death.”

“They have denounced us,” Josephine reports solemnly. She tips her elegant head to Aidah. “You, specifically, Aidah.”

A low, rustling laugh leaves her mouth. “Already? That was fast, wasn’t it?”

“Word has spread that they call you Herald,” Josephine replies delicately. “Despite your Dalish heritage. This frightens the Chantry.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

Josephine sighs. “The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you.”

“We knew it would be this way,” Leliana agrees, nodding her head. “But we should not dismiss the weight of their opinions out of hand.”

“Is that why you haven’t said anything?” Aidah says, and all eyes move to her. “Because you want Chantry support?”

Cassandra looks mildly guilty. “We—”

“Yes,” Leliana says plainly. “We haven’t tried to dispel the rumors surrounding you. If anything, we’ve encouraged them by failing to address them.”

A muscle in Aidah’s jaw feathers, her slim hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. “I know that you just lost an important leader,” she says lowly. “That we stand on a religious site, and that people believe the woman behind me was Andraste. But when I promised to help you seal the Breach, I didn’t agree to be cast as a Chosen One for a god I do not believe in.”

“You do not have to believe the Maker to lead us,” Leliana says. “What the people here see in you came from within _them,_ and their belief gives us a kind of legitimacy we will not find anywhere else.”

Aidah’s brown eyes flash. “I’m not interested in _legitimizing_ anything,” she says, a layer of frost moving over her voice. “I want to help stop the Breach. Protect my people and yours, and get rid of this _thing_ on my arm.” Her jaw clenches and loosens, and her gaze wanders once more in Lis’s direction. A beat, and she exhales sharply through her teeth, returning Leliana’s gaze. “We don’t need the Chantry to solve this mess. The Grey Wardens never have.”

“I agree,” Cullen says firmly, crossing his arms, and Aidah lifts an eyebrow. “Our mission is separate from the Chantry’s, and should remain so. I don’t believe we should _care_ about what they think, let alone align ourselves under their banner. The Chantry’s support certainly won’t get the job done. _Men_ will. Supplies. And with his Majesty’s support, we’re already in a far better position than we were yesterday to secure a foundational force.”

Josephine shakes her head. “Do not discount the role in politics in manifesting support, Commander. The truth of the matter is, without full support from both regents of Ferelden, our coffers are low. Too low to support an expanding military force. We need allies. _Connections._ The Chantry is just one group we must charm. There are many others, powerful families, who could lend us their support with a proper demonstration of strength.”

“What about the Grey Wardens?”

The advisors all stop and blink, and he turns with them to look at Elissa, who has stood quietly at his side with her brow wrinkled in thought.

“I understand that I’ve likely been replaced as Warden-Commander,” she says, frowning, “and that I do not possess the authority to lead us in the direction I choose. But the Breach, and a demon threat… It’s like the Blight, in more ways than one. We exist to serve Thedas in times of crisis.”

“You think we can invoke the treaties,” he says quietly. His stomach churns, a year’s worth of old memories stirring the echo of adrenaline into his blood. She meets his eyes, dipping her chin.

“I think, if we can convince others that this crisis is serious—and that I am who I say I am—that we have a good chance of it.”

“That…could be an incredible opportunity,” Leliana says. “I have attempted to keep track of the movements of the Wardens since this began, but unfortunately, my people have seen no traces of them. Perhaps the crisis drew them to convene at Weisshaupt.”

Alistair nods in agreement. He remembers, long ago, Duncan saying something similar. If the Wardens already viewed the Breach as a portent of another Blight, they would have begun recruitment again, to bolster their numbers. Weisshaupt was a stronghold, and the safest place to conduct the Ritual away from prying eyes. “When I raven to Denerim, I will send a second letter there to Warden-Commander Clarel. If anything, to ask formally for their help.”

"For now, while the Breach is stable, we should direct our energies to our own borders.” Cullen broods over the map before them, fingers on his chin. “The Hinterlands is in chaos. But with the men we’ve recruited here, I believe we can organize. Rein in some of the fighting and carve a path through the Frostbacks to Redcliffe.”

“Access to Redcliffe might be the solution to another problem.” Leliana looks to Aidah. “Did you manage to speak with Solas?”

Aidah nods. “His theory is what you described: that when I pulled Elissa through the Rift, it forged a powerful magic connection between us.” Her gaze trails back to Lis at his hip. “I may not understand it but…I think he’s right.”

“As do I,” Lis says softly, and Alistair frowns at the certainty on her face. “Did he say…does he have any possible explanation for what it means? What magic could have created it?”

Aidah shook her head. “He hasn’t seen anything like it before. He thinks whatever opened the Breach was…an artifact of some kind. From the ancient world. But I’ve had no success remembering that night at the Conclave, so we’re in the dark about _what,_ exactly, it was. Or who used it.”

“I asked Solas what he believed we needed to do to close the Breach. We know the Mark on your hand is capable, but closing the rift at its base nearly killed you. If you attempted it again, without help, he doubts you will survive it.” The Seeker’s gaze moves to Lis, and claws dig into Alistair’s gut. “Connected as you are…it may even kill you both.”

Silence eats at them for a moment, before Alistair finally finds his voice. “…You said “without help”,” he says, voice wooden. “What do you mean by that?”

“Solas hypothesizes that additional magic could help support the Mark. Mages could accomplish the task, pour enough magic into Aidah’s hand and amplify its strength. On the other hand, templar abilities could weaken the Breach enough it could be closed it safely.”

“A nice idea,” he says coldly. The emotions strip away from his voice as he clings to a mask of calm. “But we have no proof it will work. If it could kill them both, it isn’t worth the risk.”

“It may be our only option,” Leliana replies quietly, and he twists to look at her, feeling his face flicker in what almost feels like betrayal. Her grey eyes meet his, holding his gaze without shame. His chest winds into a tight, barbed knot, and he bites down on words that form on his tongue. _Don’t. Don’t ask her to do it again._

“We should test it,” Lis interrupts.

“What?” He whirls, and at his left, Aidah makes a considering noise.

“That…could work. Maybe in the field,” she muses. “On smaller rifts, then bigger ones with mages or templars. We can see if magic—or templar nullification—makes a difference.” Her dark eyes narrow, thoughts visibly turning over in her mind as a valley forms in between her fine brows. “We need to figure out how the Mark, its magic, ties us together. How this connection works. If we’re going to use this magic to close rifts, I need to practice—and we need to see what happens when I use it with you… _here.”_

“I agree,” Cassandra says. “Your ability is untested. We have no desire to toss you at the Breach without thought to the consequences. But I believe working to prove Solas’s theory is a priority.”

“A task that can be undertaken fighting our way to Redcliffe.” Leliana bows her head, tracing her finger from Haven’s place on the map through the Hinterlands. “I received word from Mother Giselle, a Chantry cleric just outside of Redcliffe. She’s requested our help.”

“ _Our_ help?” Lis clarifies. “The Inquisition’s? Word’s spread so soon?”

Leliana shakes her head. “Not exactly. Though I do not doubt we will be the talk of Thedas by the end of the week, I was the first to reach out to her. The day you closed the Rift at the Conclave, I knew now would be our chance to form an Inquisition as we’d planned.”

“You wrote to her about an Inquisition before I had even woken up?” Aidah asks, somewhat incredulous.

Leliana bows her head. “I had hope, Aidah. That you both would wake. And our window of opportunity is tight. Mother Giselle is sympathetic to our cause.” She lifts her head, meeting Aidah’s eyes. “And she wants to meet you.”

Aidah’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “Me? Why?”

“Your ability has made you the face of our movement. Mother Giselle will tell us how to deal with the Chantry…if she puts her faith in your character.”

Aidah combs a nervous hand through the curls at her ears, highlighting the winding tattoos on her neck. “Oh. Wonderful. No pressure at all.”

Leliana’s seriousness flickers. “You won’t be alone. All of us will be here to ensure the Inquisition’s success.”

Alistair believes that’s his cue. “And you’ll hardly journey to Redcliffe by yourself.”

Cullen and the ambassador both turn to him, surprised.

“Wouldn’t it be…safer, Your Majesty, to wait for our men to clear the way?”

Cullen nods grimly. “The route to Redcliffe will be littered with rebel apostates and templars. I cannot in good conscience advise—"

“Even if I didn’t have a _highly trained_ guard of armed soldiers,” Alistair says pointedly, “I can protect myself, you know. Aidah shouldn’t travel alone. Our enemies will think twice about attacking me on the road. And once people realize what she can do, she’ll be in danger.” _And so will Lis._

“We would never suggest she go by herself,” Josephine says, somewhat offended. “But Your Majesty—”

“Alistair and I once walked from Ostagar to Denerim in the middle of a Blight,” Lis says, smiling. “This is hardly that. You can trust we’ll handle anything that crosses our path.”

Like twisted vines, unease slithers into Alistair’s gut. He knew Lis would be coming with them—he couldn’t be separated from her side with a greatsword—but the idea of her fighting, her dodging axe blows and dancing inches from a mage’s deadly magic, sinks into his gut like lead. He has never known her without danger hanging over their heads, but—

He just got her back. The idea of losing her again makes him want to sprint for the hills. He wants to hide. Put her somewhere where she’ll never be in danger again—

_She’ll murder me first._

This is also true. Elissa will never turn away from danger when people need her. The world is ending, and she’s a Grey Warden. She’s _Lis._ And if he even insinuates that she’s more important than everyone else—even though she is, even though she’s a hero, even though he would throw himself in front of any arrow for her—she would scold him, sneak away, and go save the world anyway. _Alone,_ if he didn’t support her _._ Which is frankly unacceptable.

So really, he has no choice but to go with her everywhere, for the rest of her life, and make sure she doesn’t die. Just like old times. In a way, that’s almost comforting. And this time…the end doesn’t look like dying to kill an Archdemon. It doesn’t look like him forced to take a throne and leave her behind for duty.

It looks like them. Together. At Denerim or her family estate. Curled together in a library as she reads or roaming the gardens with a million mabaris. And maybe—maybe even—

That’s all possible now. If they close the Breach, that can be as real as they want it to be.

“What do you say?” he says quietly, turning to Aidah. “Alright with the protection of the Hero and the King of Ferelden?”

Aidah stares at him, her dark eyes wide. “I—” she starts, startled, before her expression softens. “I doubt I could ask for better, your Majesty.” He tips his head, eyebrow jaunting up, and her mouth flickers in a smile. “Alistair. Thank you.”

“If that’s settled then,” Josephine interjects hesitantly. “Then while you, His Majesty, and the Hero help settle the Hinterlands, we will plan our approach to the Chantry and the nobles of Ferelden and Orlais. It’s safe to say by the end of the month, a trip to Val Royeaux through Jader will be necessary, so that the Grand Clerics—and everyone else watching—will have a face for our movement. Hopefully, by that time, we will have secured Redcliffe.”

Alistair sighs. “I have faith in Teagan to maintain control. But I cannot promise that the Grand Enchanter will do nothing, if templars attempt to force their way into the city gates to reach them.”

Cullen’s chin jerks upwards. “Do you truly believe that will happen? That the Order would do such a thing?”

Alistair looks pityingly at him. “I think the Order will be angry I dared give them sanctuary when they agreed to lay down arms. We’ll be lucky if they don’t view our mercy as a betrayal. As it is, Anora and I both prepared ourselves for the possibility that the remaining Order might foreswear all allegiance to the Crown.”

The commander’s amber eyes widen, visibly disturbed by the concept. A beat and he slowly shakes his head, brow furrowing with disappointment. “I would like to think that the Order is smarter than that,” he says lowly. “But with the rumors from the Hinterlands…I regret to admit you may be right, Your Majesty.”

“Worst-case scenarios are usually the most predictable,” he says darkly. “But then again, no one expected the Conclave.” A glowing green storm in the sky flashes in his mind. “…I don’t know where the templar-mage conflict fits with what happened here, but we _will_ find out.”

“Until then, we need to be cautious. Trust no one on the road, Alistair.”

“Usually don’t,” he replies, smile cheerless. “But I’m not worried. Anybody who doesn’t immediately wet themselves at the sight of Lis will find themselves with her sword in their gut.” At his side, Lis shrugs in agreement, and the tension that had been building steadily in the room fades away.

“Elissa’s reappearance will lend an even larger aura of mystery to the Inquisition,” Josephine says. “Once people realize that she is not an imposter, of course. In the least, she will certainly get people talking.”

“Lady Montilyet,” Lis starts. “…If it’s possible..” For a moment, emotion trembles beneath the surface of her face, before she gathers herself. “I believe that my brother Fergus could offer us his support. House Cousland, even when I left it, had a significant sway in the Landsmeet...and if Fergus was successful in taking back the gold that Randon Howe’s men stole from us, our family could contribute much to the Inquisition’s cause.”

Josephine’s expression gentles. “That is a very generous offer, Lady Cousland. If you would like, I would be happy to assist writing a formal letter to him.”

Lis nods her head, her hazel eyes bright. “Yes. I would like that.”

 _Speaking of formal letters._ “I’ll join the queue behind her,” Alistair says, rubbing the back of his head. “I’m going to need as much help as possible, breaking the news to Anora.”

“If I could…” Aidah adds. “Leliana, I also need to write to my clan. Could I borrow your raven? I planned to reach out to them earlier, but…erhm. I’ve been busy. My father might fear the worst, by now.”

“It appears we all have missives to write,” Leliana hums, nodding. “A word of caution. Do not write anything you wouldn’t want your enemies to read. We are going to be watched closely, now. Many people will be interested, and willing to pay, for any information passing from Haven to the outside world.”

Aidah presses her lips together. “My clan was one of them. It’s why I was here in the first place.”

“We know you were a spy,” Leliana says dismissively, and Aidah’s slim shoulders stiffen. “But of all the groups in Thedas, the Dalish has the least motivation to kill the Divine. Besides, your experience might prove to your benefit.” Leliana’s face gets that mysterious, probing quality that’s only gotten scarier since Alistair first met her. “The most important skill a spy can have is the ability to mirror what people believe you’re capable of.”

“And what do people believe I’m capable of?” Aidah asks softly.

Leliana smiles. “Nobody knows. And that’s a powerful advantage.”

Aidah wraps her arms around herself. “Even if I don’t know what I’m doing?” she asks, with a small, anxious laugh.

Gently, Alistair elbows her side. “Especially then,” he says reassuringly. “When it doubt, act like you have everything under control. Doesn’t work that well for _me_ , but you’re a spy. You can lie. Just do that.”

“Sure,” Aidah deadpans, but the fear in her dark eyes has ebbed into amusement. “That’s all it takes to lead, then.”

“That and a _biiiiiiig_ sword,” Alistair says, nodding sagely. “A crown helps, but that’s optional.” A genuine chuckle leaves the elf’s lips, and he turns to the rest. “So, we have our mission.” He lifts his hands to count fingers. “Find out who murdered the Divine. Figure out how to safely close the Breach. Stop the mages and templars from killing each other and everyone else, and finally, convince enough people that if they don’t help us, we’re all going to die. That about cover it?”

“Succinctly, Your Majesty,” Leliana says flatly.

He narrows his eyes. “What did I say about sarcasm?”

“Maker, Ali,” Lis sighs from his hip. “Your poor advisors.”

A laugh wells in his throat. “Joining the Inquisition might be exactly what they need to get rid of me,” he muses aloud. “Ooh, I bet they’re so pleased. Vindictive, greedy little bastards. Lucky they didn’t depose me when I went off to Tevinter and dueled the Arishok.”

“You did _what?_ ”

The question leaves the mouths of most people in the room, and he rolls his shoulders beneath the sudden attention, fighting a blush. “Yes, well. It all worked out, I _won_. Sten didn’t even kill me after.”

“ _Sten?_ ” Lis demands, shocked. “ _Sten_ is the Arishok?”

“Yep.”

“And you _dueled him_ in Tevinter?”

“Long story.”

“Are kings even allowed to duel?” Aidah questions blankly.

“Funny question. The Landsmeet would say _no, absolutely not._ But lucky for them, they weren’t there to say so."

“Maybe asking for his support wasn’t the best idea,” Leliana confides to Josephine, _sotto voce,_ and he whirls to point at her when the ambassador gracefully hides a smile.

“Oi!”

Across the table, both Cullen and Cassandra look uncomfortably saddled, like older siblings when unexpectedly left to care for children. It’s a hilarious picture. For the first time, he feels a flicker of hope that the lot of them might actually have a real chance at fixing things. _Even if they don’t, well…at least they’re more fun than his advisors._ If it’s the end of the world, they’ll have a better shot with leadership that isn’t hung up on the boundaries of tradition, precedent, and politics.

He hears Elissa’s powdery laugh when Leliana whispers another insult to Cullen, making him shift awkwardly and look away, and feels his heart warm like a forge.

_And if anyone can do it…it will be her._

When they were lying in bed together, all he remember was how it felt to fail her. To lose her. To be left behind.

Surrounded by allies, the idea does not paralyze him like it did this morning. Looking across the room, seeing how they look at them both—Cullen, Cassandra, Josephine, even Leliana. The awe on their faces, looking at Aidah and Elissa. The way they _listen._ It borders on reverent. Familiar, but different, somehow, from the way his subjects look at him. Now, he isn’t the only one willing to do anything to keep her alive.

_“It’s like the Blight, in more ways than one.”_

He just prays that, together, they’ll all be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh alistair. i love writing you, bro. you're so angsty after ten years. this might sound weird but i try not to linger in either 'soft' or 'hardened' alistair voices--he's not a silly twenty year old anymore, but I think the comics with canonical hardened Alistair killed his sense of humor. He's a funny person who uses his humor to cope. Years of loneliness and responsibility have changed him, violence and abuse has shaped him, and I think that love, that Lis, makes him a better man. I also think his fear for her will bring out more unexpected, realistic but complicated, aspects of his personality. 
> 
> This chapter raises sooo many questions, and I'm very excited to follow up on all of them. Ali and Lis are gonna shake up the Inquisition, and be the worst influence on Aidah and the rest, I promise :)
> 
> Finally, the chapter after this will bring us to the Hinterlands (and swiftly through it). But fair warning: once we get there, the canon divergence is gonna start to really kick in. And you will all get some action scenes, baby. <3
> 
> tysm for reading. drop a comment below if you like the story so far!

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title: how varric tethras accidentally becomes besties with the most important and all-powerful bitches in all of Thedas
> 
> so it's winter again, which means i have begun my yearly playthrough of the dragon age games and i'm in love for the hundredth time. i crave alistair/warden material like plants crave sunlight, and i always wanted to write a fic where alistair was thrown in the inquisition as a companion because honestly, he and certain members would get on like a house on fire. this fic will have evolving relationships (although the main pairing, Alistair/Warden will remain fixed), so consider me...malleable on certain outcomes, to an extent, unless i really sink my teeth into an idea later.
> 
> like the story? have thoughts?? speak up in the comment box below or hmu on tumblr @apprenticeofdoyle


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